I 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    QUEST    ETERNAL 


"For  that  moment  the  quest  for  him,  his  eter- 
nal quest,  had  ended" 

(p.  326) 


The 
Quest  Eternal 

By  WILL  LILLIBRIDGE 


AUTHOR    OF 

"Ben  Blair,"  "Where  the  Trail  Divides,"  Etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLORS  BT 
THE  KINNEYS 


A.  L.  BURT    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYMGHT,    1908, 

BT  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
Published  September,  1908 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PROLOGUE  vii 

I  THE  RELEASE  I 

II  A  FLICKER  ON  THE  HEARTH  29 

III  INSTINCT,  THE  UNCONQUERABLE  42 

IV  THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  DISTANCE  55 
V  FATE,  THE  SATIRIST  66 

VI  A  NEW  ACTOR  8 1 

VII  THE  GIANT  AND  THE  PYGMY  95 

VIII  A  SUGGESTION  OF  FUTURE  108 

IX  DEFEAT  123 

X  As  GATHERS  A  CLOUD  134 

XI  LIFE'S  WHEEL  RELENTLESS  151 

XII  SACRIFICE  170 

XIII  ARCADY  185 

XIV  THE  WHEEL  MOVES  ON  206 
XV  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  QUEST  221 

XVI  THE  TRAIL  DIVIDES  239 

XVII  IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  PAST  255 

XVIII  THE  DEAD  WALL  OF  THE  INEVITABLE  271 

XIX  THE  FINAL  DEAL  288 

XX  WHERE  ENDS  THE  QUEST  309 


1521CS3 


PROLOGUE 

OUT  of  doors,  in  the  sleepy  heat  of  the  summer 
afternoon,  the  indolent  little  prairie  city  went  dog- 
gedly about  its  task  of  working  against  time.  Six 
o'clock,  the  hour  when  the  waterworks  whistle  and 
the  siren  on  the  one  companion  brick  factory  would 
sound  relief,  remained  yet  dim  in  the  distance  and 
from  end  to  end  of  the  main  business  street  the  dy- 
namo of  human  activity  hummed  low. 

On  the  most  prominent  corner  of  the  thorough- 
fare, in  the  heart  of  this  drowsy  scene,  casting  now 
a  welcome  shadow-blot  far  out  on  the  cobbled 
street,  at  all  times  a  landmark  and  a  source  of  civic 
pride,  arose  a  modern  office  building.  From  the 
multitude  of  windows  which  checkered  its  face, 
ethically  insistent  against  a  common  background  of 
gold  leaf,  stared  forth  the  names  of  divers  profes- 
sional men  who  laboured  within.  Doctors,  lawyers, 
and  dentists,  specialists  and  commoners  mingled  in 
that  glaring  directory;  but  amid  the  motley  a  casual 
observer  would  at  that  time  have  found  one  sign 
standing  out  distinct  and  prominent  from  amid  the 
mass.  As  the  lettering  of  all  were  uniform  in  size, 
had  this  same  mythical  observer  been  curious  or 
analytically  inclined,  he  would  have  sought  for  an 


viii  Prologue 

explanation.  By  comparison  with  others  adjoining 
he  would  have  found  that  solution  simple,  but  his 
curiosity  would  not  have  been  satisfied.  While, 
during  this  the  heat  of  the  day,  every  other  window 
on  the  north  front  was  open  to  catch  the  faintest 
breath  of  breeze,  in  consequence  the  signs  on  upper 
and  lower  sashes  mingling  in  confusion,  the  letters 
on  this  one  were  separate  and  distinct,  the  windows 
of  this  one  office  alone  were  closed — closed  grimly 
like  a  pair  of  tight  drawn  lips.  Had  the  indolence 
of  the  day  not  been  too  contagious  and  the  same  ob- 
server continued  his  inspection,  he  would  of  a  sud- 
den have  seen  something  even  more  curious  occur. 
Just  for  a  second,  fair  into  view,  drawn,  white, 
startling,  appeared  the  face  of  a  man — a  young  face 
close-shaven ;  then  equally  suddenly,  blotting  it  out, 
the  shade  was  drawn  intervening  with  the  violence 
of  an  explosion,  and  against  the  white  background 
thus  formed,  in  the  place  of  that  tragic  mask,  stared 
forth  anew  the  simple  sign : 

DRS.  McLEOD  AND  STONE 
Surgeons  and  Physicians. 

***** 

Back  of  that  tightly  closed  window,  back  of  three 
feet  of  solid  masonry  that  separated  the  street  and 
absorbed  the  rattle  of  steel  on  cobblestones  until 
the  world  without  all  but  ceased  to  exist,  was  an 
office  suite  of  three  rooms.  One  of  these,  the  one 


Prologue  ix 

in  the  rear,  was  a  waiting  room  comfortably  fur- 
nished, with  an  effort  even  at  cheerfulness.  In  it 
now  were  two  people,  a  man  and  a  woman ;  middle 
aged  each,  likewise  in  common  nervously  restless. 
They  were  walking  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth 
in  opposite  directions  the  length  of  the  apartment; 
and  each  time  they  passed  they  looked  each  other 
fair  in  the  face  with  the  silent  understanding  of 
those  who  have  faced  life  for  long  side  by  side. 

The  room  adjoining,  the  consultation  room  with 
its  two  chairs  intimately  facing  and  its  stereotyped 
grouping  of  diplomas  on  the  wall,  was  vacant.  Be- 
side the  roll-top  desk  was  a  bookcase  bent  with  the 
weight  of  many  volumes  enclosed  in  calf.  The 
air  was  close  and  stuffy  and  the  characteristic 
odour  of  the  leather  bindings  was  unpleasantly 
insistent. 

The  third  room,  white  tiled  to  the  ceiling,  grey 
under  foot,  all  but  forbidding  in  its  aseptic  sim- 
plicity, was  the  operating  room.  It  had  one  win- 
dow, the  window  so  significantly  closed,  and  one 
door,  sans  glass,  leading  into  the  cousultation  room. 
In  comparison  with  the  heat  outside  the  air  here 
within  was  cool.  In  addition  now  it  was  sweetly 
heavy  with  the  odour  of  chloroform  and  held  be- 
neath an  irritating,  penetrating  tang  that  to  the 
initiated  spelled  formaldehyde. 

At  one  side  of  the  room,  drawn  well  to  the  win- 
dow for  better  light,  was  an  iron  operating  table, 


x  Prologue 

enamelled  white ;  and  upon  it,  stretched  horizontal, 
with  only  a  pneumatic  rubber  cushion  intervening, 
lay  a  human  figure,  motionless,  the  face  concealed 
by  a  chloroform  mask.  Beside  the  table  were  two 
men,  both  young,  both  clean  shaven.  Of  these,  one, 
in  shirt-sleeves,  stood  very  near  and  held  a  bottle  in 
his  hand;  a  bottle  from  which  now  and  then,  drop 
by  drop,  fell  a  colourless  liquid  onto  the  conical 
white  mask.  The  other,  in  a  white  gown  reaching 
from  throat  to  shoe  tops,  his  arms  bare  to  the  el- 
bow, stood  waiting,  motionless  as  fate. 

This  the  scene  within,  quiet,  orderly,  methodical; 
the  scene  behind  the  one  closed  office  window  that 
sultry  summer  afternoon.  The  place  was  very  still. 
The  sounds  from  the  street  without  came  deadened 
to  the  faintest  murmur.  The  steady  tramp  of  feet 
on  the  waiting-room  floor  was  just  audible.  Against 
the  background  of  almost  silence  one  sound  alone 
was  distinctly  heard.  That,  the  breathing  of  the 
patient  on  the  table,  pulsated  through  the  room. 
Heavy,  stertorous,  vibrant,  like  the  subdued  exhaust 
of  a  gasoline  engine,  it  fairly  filled  the  place,  grew 
louder  and  louder.  In  measure  as  it  augmented 
the  intensity  of  the  watchers'  attention  increased. 
They  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe  themselves  now, 
those  two  conscious  men  in  the  room.  Drop  after 
drop  fell  that  colourless  liquid,  vanishing  appar- 
ently into  nothing  as  it  struck  the  muslin  mask. 
The  man  nearest  the  table  reached  over  and  lifted 


Prologue  xi 

an  arm  of  the  prostrate  figure.  It  hung  limp  in  his 
hand  and  as  he  released  his  grasp,  dropped  like  a 
dead  weight  to  its  place.  Responsive  the  single  ac- 
tor straightened  and  cleared  his  throat  uncon- 
sciously, unnecessarily;  the  low  rasp  by  comparison 
sounding  startlingly  loud. 

"Almost  ready,  McLeod,"  he  said. 

Answering  the  lips  of  the  other  man  tightened; 
but  he  made  no  sound  nor  stirred  otherwise  by  so 
much  as  a  muscle. 

A  minute  dragged  by,  second  by  second.  The 
stertorous  breathing,  having  reached  its  climax,  be- 
came now  with  each  repetition  quieter  and  quieter. 
In  consequence  the  room  returned  to  its  former  still- 
ness. Muffled,  regular,  just  audible,  the  sound  of 
the  steps  in  the  waiting  room  intruded  anew.  An- 
other minute,  dragging,  tense,  gathered  into  the 
past.  Once  more,  drop  by  drop,  the  colourless 
liquid  fell  and  disappeared  as  water  on  desert  sand. 
In  methodic  cycle  once  again  the  figure  in  shirt- 
sleeves leaned  forward;  but  this  time  his  fingers 
touched  the  cornea  beneath  a  lifted  eyelid.  There 
was  no  reaction,  no  shrinking,  no  trace  of  conscious- 
ness in  the  slightest.  It  was  the  moment  at  last,  the 
arrival  of  anaesthesia  complete,  and  for  the  second 
time  the  watcher  straightened.  He  half  turned. 
He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak;  the  word  "ready" 
formed  on  his  lips,  trembled  on  his  tongue — then 
of  a  sudden  died.  Instead  of  speaking  he  leaned 


xii  Prologue 

forward  swiftly.  His  ear  dropped  to  the  patient's 
lips,  pressed  closer  and  closer.  Automatically  from 
reiterated  training  that  had  become  almost  instinct, 
the  palm  of  his  hand  struck  the  chest  of  the  pros- 
trate figure  before  him,  and  again;  startlingly,  in- 
sistently, the  impact  sounding  dull  through  the  silent 
room.  Following  once  more  the  man's  ear  dropped 
to  the  patient's  lips,  the  lips  that  were  growing 
greyish  already — and  responsive  the  fate  of  the 
man  himself  took  on  the  same  hue.  Involuntarily 
his  breath  caught  with  the  suddenness  of  realisation 
and  to  his  tongue,  unconscious,  primitive,  there 
sprang  an  oath : 

"God  damn  him,  Mac,"  he  imprecated,  "he's  quit 
breathing." 


Out  of  doors  the  humdrum  little  city  droned  on 
its  way;  unconscious  of  tragedy  near  at  hand,  un- 
conscious of  aught  save  physical  inertia,  lethargic, 
stolid.  In  the  waiting  room  the  same  nervous,  rest- 
less steps  pattered  on  and  on,  halted  and,  like  a 
pendulum,  swung  back,  back  in  the  old  trail.  With- 
in the  tiny  operating  room,  however,  was  not  quiet 
and  order  and  method  now.  Unconscious  for  the 
moment  that  a  world  existed  without  those  four 
walls  the  two  doctors  were  working  like  demons — 
working  as  human  beings  only  will  work  when 
facing  death.  No  thought  was  in  their  minds  of 


Prologue  xiii 

time  or  of  heat.  The  sweat  trickled  in  streams 
down  their  faces  and  they  never  knew.  No  thought 
in  their  minds  of  conventional  things.  Curses,  bub- 
bling, tense,  blistering,  dripped  from  the  lips  of 
both ;  from  even  the  tongue  of  Andrew  McLeod — 
he  whom  a  circle  of  intimate  friends  had  never 
heard  take  the  name  of  Deity  in  vain.  Seconds 
dragged  by  and  grew  into  minutes.  Minutes  that 
contained  the  elements  of  eternities  gathered  into 
the  past.  The  piston  of  a  hypodermic  syringe 
clicked  again  and  again.  Restoratives  one  after  an- 
other failed.  Probability  shaded  bit  by  bit  into 
possibility,  possibility  into  vague  hope,  hope  into 
a  miracle  supplicated.  And  still  they  worked  on. 
Drone,  drone  went  the  indifferent  world  without. 
Pat,  pat  sounded  the  steps  in  the  waiting  room. 
Once  these  latter  halted  as  if  their  maker  were 
listening;  then  reluctantly  moved  again,  and  on. 
Time  slipped  by.  Again  in  cycle  the  steps  paused, 
longer  than  previously;  halted  before  the  interven- 
ing door.  Mechanically,  in  mere  blind  persistence 
ere  this,  the  two  men  within  worked  on.  That  God 
alone  could  help  them  now  they  both  knew — yet 
they  worked  on.  Miracles  had  happened  of  old, 
Deity  was  still  on  its  throne,  by  a  millionth  possi- 
bility  

"Tap!  tap!"  interrupting,  warning  sounded  a 
hesitant  knuckle  on  the  oak  panel. 

Silence,  dead  silence,  in  answer. 


xiv  Prologue 

"Tap !  tap !  tap !"  repeated  the  knock,  insistently, 

all  but  authoritatively. 

***** 

It  was  then  that  Sidney  Stone  awoke.  Then  it 
was  that  for  a  second  a  ghastly  grey  face  stood 
framed  in  the  window  ere  the  shade  crashed  to  the 
ledge  below.  Following,  in  the  irresponsible  terror 
of  realisation,  oblivious  of  its  confession,  he  turned 
feverishly  to  the  single  door  leading  to  the  consul- 
tation room  and  turned  the  key.  Answering  a  bolt 
grated  to  its  place  and  a  second  later  the  two  part- 
ners stood  staring  each  other  face  to  face.  It  was 
a  psychological  moment,  a  moment  of  destiny  and 
for  a  second  neither  spoke.  In  that  interval  the 
silence  held  a  myriad  mental  voices;  voices  whose 
echo  rang  in  the  ears  of  each  man  in  the  darkness 
of  countless  nights  which  followed;  voices  that  to 
the  one  at  least  whispered  mockingly  to  the  day  of 
his  death;  voices  of  conscience,  of  suspense,  of  pre- 
monition; voices 

"Tap !  tap  1"  A  hand,  a  woman's  hand,  tried  the 
door,  found  it  locked,  and  unbelieving  tried  again. 

Answering  within  there  was  action.  Swiftly, 
jerkily,  from  a  hook  on  the  wall  Stone  put  on  a  coat 
and  hat,  mopped  the  sweat  from  his  face  with  a 
trembling  hand,  straightened  his  tie  involuntarily, 
started  without  a  word  for  the  door. 

"Sid,"  detained  the  other.  "Wait  a  bit.  Where 
are  you  going?" 


Prologue  xv 

No  answer. 

"Sid,"  preventingly  McLeod  sprung  before  the 
door  and  stood  facing  the  other,  "tell  me,  what  is 
it  you're  going  to  do?" 

"Do!"  perforce  the  drawn  grey  face  met  the 
questioner  directly.  "Do!  I'm  going  to  get  out 
of  this  while  there's  time." 

"You're  going  to  run?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  repeated. 

"And  leave  me  to  explain?" 

No  reply ;  but  the  listener  came  a  step  nearer. 

"Answer  me.  Have  you  gone  insane?  Will  you 
leave  me  to  face  this  thing  alone?" 

Still  no  reply. 

"I  repeat.  Have  you  thought  what  it  means  if 
you  leave  so?" 

"I've  thought  what  it  means  if  I  stay." 

"Stay!  You've  done  no  wrong.  Neither  of  us 
has  done  wrong." 

"No  one  will  believe  so,"  swiftly.  "They'll  send 
us  both  up  as  sure  as  there's  a  law  in  the  land." 

"Not  unless  you  run." 

"Unless  I  succeed  in  getting  away." 

"Sidney! — Stone!"  McLeod's  back  was  to  the 
door.  He  was  fighting  as  for  life.  "In  God's  name, 
man,  think !  Don't  lose  your  nerve,  think.  It  was 
inevitable.  No  one  could  know  in  advance.  Stay. 
We'll  face  it  together.  You'll  ruin  us  both  if  you 
go-" 


xvi  Prologue 

"Ruin » 

"Knock!  knock!  knock!"  not  trepidation  this 
time  but  insistence,  authority. 

"Let  me  through !"  Responsive,  ferocious,  men- 
acing, Stone  came  a  step  nearer.  "They're  suspi- 
cious already.  They'll  spread  the  alarm  unless  you 
let  them  in.  I  tell  you  we'll  be  sent  up  sure  as  Hell. 
Let  me  out,  I  say !" 

"I'll  not.    You're  mad." 

"God  damn  you,  McLeod!" 

"Silence!" 

"I  won't  be  silent  nor  wait  a  second  longer.  Stay 
if  you  will,  but  let  me  out  or  by " 

"Sid — you  wouldn't  murder  me — think,  for  your 
own  sake,  Sid,  man,  think — oh,  Jesus!" 


THE    QUEST    ETERNAL 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  RELEASE 

A  MAN  who  had  once  been  tall,  but  was  now  stoop- 
shouldered  and  shuffling  of  pace,  bearing  an  atti- 
tude of  subserviency  as  well,  the  tacit  submission  of 
the  broken  in  spirit,  emerged  from  the  great  arched 
entrance  of  the  State  penitentiary  and  paused  on 
the  steps  without.  The  season  was  summer;  the 
time  mid-afternoon.  Upon  the  cement  court  all 
surrounding  the  sunlight  fell  dazzlingly  white, 
blindingly  so  to  eyes  accustomed  to  darkened  corri- 
dors, and  involuntarily  the  newcomer  put  his  hand 
to  his  face  as  though  to  avoid  a  blow.  A  moment 
he  stood  so,  confused,  uncertain ;  then  of  a  sudden, 
remembering  that  the  warden  himself  was  watch- 
ing, without  a  word  or  a  backward  look  he  drew 
his  hat  far  over  his  forehead,  half  closed  his  lids 
and  started  uncertainly  down  the  steps  toward  the 
gravelled  walk  beyond. 

Bit  by  bit  as  he  walked  his  eyes  adjusted  them- 
selves to  the  glare.  Shade  by  shade  they  lifted 
from  the  path  at  his  feet  until  his  field  of  vision 
included  the  immediate  surroundings.  At  either 
side  of  the  walk  was  a  beautifully  kept  park.  Here 
and  there  the  shade-blot  of  a  tree  rendered  the 


2  The  Quest  Eternal 

green  more  intense.  Just  to  his  right,  in  a  clear 
space,  a  fountain  spouted  actively  and  fell  with 
softest  music  into  a  wide  marble  basin  beneath.  On 
its  brim  a  long-tailed  brown  thrush  was  perched, 
drinking  thirstily.  From  an  elm  tree  near  by,  as 
the  intruder  appeared,  its  mate  sounded  a  warning 
note  and  with  a  flit  of  brown  wings  the  thirsty  one 
was  gone.  Save  the  man  himself  no  other  human 
being  was  visible.  No  sound  save  the  patter  of  the 
fountain  could  be  heard.  The  intimate  heat  of 
afternoon  and  the  heavy  pungent  odour  of  growing 
things  were  dominant,  ubiquitous.  The  close- 
clipped  sod,  alluringly  dark  with  shade,  seemed 
almost  to  voice  an  invitation.  The  life  odour,  all 
prevalent,  was  like  the  bouquet  of  liquor  to  a  drunk- 
ard. Under  its  spell,  bit  by  bit,  the  man  slackened 
his  pace.  Greedily  as  the  starving  child  of  a  city's 
slums  inspects  a  baker's  window,  he  looked  from 
side  to  side.  His  nostrils  widened  hungrily.  He 
breathed  deep;  and  again  and  again.  As  one 
draught  of  spirits  but  whets  an  inebriate's  appetite, 
it  made  him  wish  for  more  and  more.  He  caught 
the  odour  from  a  late  flowering  rose  tree  and  his 
fingers  itched  with  the  lust  of  possession.  The 
path  led  on  and  on  into  the  surrounding  park, 
made  a  turn  and,  without  looking  back,  he  was 
conscious  that  the  grey  stone  pile  he  was  leaving, 
with  its  windows  and  its  watchful  eyes,  had  disap- 
peared from  view.  But  still  the  appeal  of  turf  and 


The  Release  3 

shade  remained,  strengthened  with  the  passing 
moments.  For  a  moment  the  man's  pace  quickened. 
Despite  the  heat  he  seemed  about  to  break  into  a 
run ;  then  of  a  sudden  he  halted  stock  still.  With 
the  involuntary  suspicion  of  a  hunted  thing  he  cast 
a  swift  look  about  him.  Still  no  one  was  visible. 
The  flowering  rose  tree  was  very  near  now.  At  its 
side  was  a  shadow-blot,  intoxicatingly  dark.  It  was 
the  crushing  straw.  With  one  bound,  like  a  wild 
animal  from  its  cage,  he  was  outside  the  path,  the 
crisp  sod  beneath  his  feet,  the  abandon  of  the  re- 
bellion dominating  his  brain.  With  another  his 
fingers  had  closed  on  their  prize,  and  again  and 
again;  until  his  hands  were  full  of  the  fragrant 
blossoms.  The  shadow-blot  lay  at  his  feet,  tempt- 
ing, compelling.  Like  a  stone,  like  the  nature- 
starved  human  that  he  was,  he  dropped  fair  in  his 
tracks,  buried  his  face,  his  hands,  his  whole  body 
in  the  blessed  green,  for  the  first  time  in  years  it 
seemed  to  him  relaxed  absolutely,  in  every  muscle 
and  every  nerve. 

Up  the  path,  gravelled  here,  dull,  grinding,  heavy 
heeled,  authoritative,  came  a  step.  Its  maker  was 
red-faced  from  the  exertion  of  the  rapid  motion. 
The  club  which  dangled  from  a  loop  on  his  wrist 
was  ominous.  On  and  on  he  came.  He  did  not  lift 
his  voice,  he  merely  approached:  like  an  avenging 
element,  like  the  offended  majesty  of  the  law  imper- 
sonate. Very  near  he  drew,  so  near  that,  like  his 


4  The  Quest  Eternal 

predecessor,  he  left  the  path;  but  if  the  offender 
heard  he  gave  no  indication  of  the  knowledge.  As 
at  first,  he  lay  flat  on  the  ground,  his  fingers  digging 
hungrily  into  the  cool  sod,  the  face  of  him  pressed 
close  to  earth,  his  whole  being  drinking  deep  at  the 
breast  of  the  common  mother.  Just  a  moment  at  his 
side  the  newcomer  halted,  as  if  in  doubt;  then  a 
great  hairy  hand  dropped  like  a  tentacle  to  the  neck 
of  the  prostrate  one  and  lifted  him  to  his  feet. 
Simultaneously  a  voice  sounded;  a  voice  big  and 
rumbling  to  match  the  hand. 

"Can't  you  read  English,  man?"  it  challenged. 

Face  to  face  the  two  men  stood  staring  at  each 
other;  but  the  culprit  made  no  answer. 

"Speak  up  there,  sulky,"  repeated  the  giant,  add- 
ing emphasis  with  a  mighty  shake  at  the  victim's 
collar.  "Don't  you  know  the  English  language 
when  you  see  it  on  signs?" 

The  other  made  no  defence.  His  arms  hung  limp 
at  his  side  as  when  he  was  lifted. 

"Read  English?"  There  was  not  the  ghost 
of  a  smile.  "How  do  I  know!  I  haven't 
tried  for  so  long  I've  forgotten."  A  sudden  straight 
look  into  the  inquiring  eyes,  a  peculiar  look.  "I 
don't  know  what  is  the  official  language  in  the 
place  I've  been."  Then  as  an  afterthought.  "Do 
you?" 

Harder  than  before  stared  the  custodian  of  the 
law. 


The  Release  5 

"Do  I  know?"  he  groped.  "How  the  devil  should 
I  know!  Where've  you  been?" 

"Where?    Would  you  really  like  to  know?" 

"That's  what  I  asked  you." 

"I'll  tell  you  then.  It's  a  secret,  but  I'll  tell  you. 
I've  been  in— Hell!" 

The  officer  stared  as  at  a  maniac,  but  the  other 
only  wandered  on. 

"Yes,  I've  just  come  from  there,  just  this  minute. 
If  you've  any  friends  in  that  country  I  can  tell  you 
all  about  them."  Once  more  the  peculiar  straight 
look.  "Have  you  any  friends  there,  officer?" 

The  face  of  the  policeman  reddened  and  from 
force  of  habit  the  warning  shake  was  repeated. 

"You're  a  gay  one,"  he  complimented.  "But  I'll 
soon  take  that  out  of  you.  Answer  my  question. 
Where've  you  been?" 

"I  told  you." 

"Well,  where're  you  going,  then?" 

"I'm  going  back  very  soon — in  fact,  I'm  there 
already.  I  only  escaped  for  a  second.  If  you've 
any  message " 

"Shut  up." 

The  other  was  silent,  but  his  eyes  did  not  drop. 

"That's  better.  Now  explain  yourself  or  I'll  run 
you  in." 

No  answer. 

"Come,  talk  up.  I'm  tired  of  monkeying  with 
you." 


6  The  Quest  Eternal 

"You  told  me  to  be  silent." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  run  you  in?"  threateningly. 

"As  you  wish."  The  indifference  was  not  simu- 
lated. "I  don't  care.  I  thought  I  did — for  a 
second;  but  now  I  know  better.  When  one  is  in 
Hell  he  doesn't  care — for  anything." 

For  the  first  time  the  officer  released  his  grip.  His 
free  hand  scratched  at  his  chin. 

"Well  you  are  a  rum  one,"  he  emphasised.  It 
was  a  considerable  distance  to  a  place  of  confine- 
ment and  the  day  was  very  hot.  Besides,  to  jug  a 
man  who  was  perfectly  reconciled  to  the  fact  lost 
the  element  of  sport.  "Come,  tell  me  if  you  can 
read,"  he  added;  "and  I'll  let  you  off." 

"I  did  tell  you — that  I  don't  know."  A  brighten- 
ing of  the  face  as  at  a  sudden  idea.  "However, 
if  you  were  to  suggest  a  test,  perhaps  then " 

"Look  there!"  The  hairy  hand  indicated  a 
weather-stained  placard. 

"I  can  read  that.    It  says  'Keep  off  the  grass.'  " 

"Exactly."    The  irony  was  crushing. 

The  captured  one  was  not  impressed. 

"Well,  you're  on  the  grass  aren't  you  ?" 

"What!" 

"You're  a  heavy  man  too,  a  terrifically  heavy 
man." 

The  other's  jaw  dropped  in  speechless  surprise. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,"  wandered 
on  the  mentor;  "you  a  custodian  of  the  law  and  with 


The  Release  7 

a  sign  like  that  right  under  your  nose.  You — "  of 
a  sudden  the  voice  halted.  Involuntarily  the 
speaker's  hands  went  to  his  face,  locked  tight.  A 
moment  he  stood  so. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  officer,"  he  digressed  swiftly. 
"I  meant  no  offence."  He  was  trembling  violently. 
"I — we  in  Hell — aren't  always  responsible.  I'll 
go  of  course."  He  had  suited  action  to  promise. 
"You're  not  to  blame  because — "  He  had  reached 
the  path.  He  was  almost  running  again.  "Good- 
bye," and  he  was  gone. 


Night  had  fallen,  a  night  such  as  the  day  had 
presaged :  stiflingly  hot,  unmitigatedly  depressing. 
Everywhere  on  the  downtown  streets  of  the  little 
city  thronged  a  crowd ;  a  crowd  impotently  seeking 
a  thing  they  would  not  find  save  in  sleep — relief. 
Back  and  forth  they  drifted,  back  and  forth,  aim- 
lessly, restlessly ;  and  in  their  midst,  a  part  of  them 
and  still  separate,  moved  the  same  man  of  the  after- 
noon. 

Viewed  even  by  the  charity  of  electric  light  he  was 
not  an  imposing  figure,  this  man.  His  coat  was 
rough  and  cheap  and  ready-made.  Across  his 
stooped  shoulders  it  stretched  to  bursting  and 
wrinkled  abominably  about  the  neck.  His  coloured 
shirt  was  guiltless  of  starch  and  he  wore  no  tie.  As 
he  wandered  along  his  hands  were  hidden  in  his 


8  The  Quest  Eternal 

pockets  and  his  feet  shuffled  unconsciously.  Most 
of  the  time  his  eyes  were  on  the  pavement  at  his 
feet;  yet  now  and  then  he  looked  about  him  with 
a  sweeping  glance,  so  swift  and  intense  that  it  was 
almost  surreptitious;  a  look  that  had  become  a 
habit.  By  these  glances,  seemingly  casual  as  they 
were,  he  took  in  every  detail  of  the  scene  about 
him.  And  everywhere  was  change.  A  trolley  car 
droned  by  and  his  eyes  lifted.  There  were  no 
trolley  cars  here — before.  A  pair  of  matched  bays 
attached  to  a  glittering  carriage,  with  an  impassive 
Jehu  on  the  box,  clattered  past.  Such  an  apparition 
would  have  created  a  sensation  in  the  town  he  had 
known.  Electric  signs  blinked  at  him  mockingly 
from  every  side.  Gilt  paint  had  been  the  height  of 
extravagance — then.  Seemingly  aimless  though 
his  journey  might  be  it  had,  nevertheless,  a  definite 
destination.  Bit  by  bit  he  had  approached  the  heart 
of  the  town,  the  corner  where  once  a  single  modern 
office  building  had  lifted  its  head.  Now  there  were 
four.  Once  that  corner  had  been  a  public  hack 
stand.  Memory  recalled  a  long  line  of  waiting 
vehicles ;  a  line  dotted  for  its  length  with  twinkling 
lamps,  like  glowing  eyes  in  pairs.  Now  he  looked 
for  the  line  in  vain.  In  their  place  a  well-groomed 
policeman  dominated  the  scene  and  looked  him 
askance  when  he  paused. 

But  changed  as  the  scene  was  as  a  whole,  one  de- 
tail had  not  altered.     Like  a  familiar  face  in  a 


The  Release  9 

strange  crowd,  one  building  stood  out  distinct  from 
amid  the  mass.  And  for  it  the  man  had  eyes  alone. 
Before  he  had  been  an  intruder,  an  alien,  one  re- 
turned from  the  dead.  Here  at  last  was  another  of 
his  own  time,  his  own  day.  His  feeling  toward  it 
was  almost  as  toward  another  human.  Had  he  been 
alone  he  would  have  touched  it  with  his  hand.  As 
it  was  he  merely  looked.  For  the  time  being  he  was 
unconscious  of  his  surroundings.  The  passers-by 
jostled  him,  the  policeman,  returning  upon  his  beat, 
again  looked  a  question ;  but  the  man  was  oblivious 
of  their  presence.  Once  before  this  day  for  a  few 
brief  seconds  he  had  escaped  from  himself.  Now 
the  experience  was  repeated.  At  that  moment  he 
was  not  living  in  the  present  at  all,  this  man.  Mem- 
ory, most  marvellous  of  magicians,  had  in  a  flash 
wiped  from  the  calendar  a  full  decade.  No  longer 
was  he  stooped  of  shoulder.  No  longer  were  his 
hands  stiffened  and  his  brain  dulled  from  manual 
labour.  The  earth  and  the  fulness  thereof  was  his ; 
he  had  but  to  prove  his  title.  The  surging  blood  of 
manhood  throbbed  in  his  veins.  He  could  feel  it 
tingle  to  his  finger  tips.  This,  memory's  miracle 
beneath  that  forbidding  exterior.  Thus  fate  the 
ironic,  jested.  Then,  with  the  inevitable  crash  of 
disillusionment,  the  present,  the  real,  intruded. 
When  he  had  first  looked  the  building  before  him 
had  been  dark  to  the  roof.  For  a  moment  there- 
after it  had  remained  so.  Then  by  one  of  those 


10  The  Quest  Eternal 

infinite  coincidences,  more  frequent  in  real  life  than 
in  fiction,  something  happened.  While  his  eyes 
were  yet  upon  it,  suddenly  as  the  turning  of  an  elec- 
tric button,  one  window  on  the  dark  face  sprang 
alight.  With  an  odd  thrill,  a  sort  of  subconscious 
surprise,  the  watcher  realised  that  it  was  the  win- 
dow of  windows,  the  window  which  had  been  his 
own;  then  equally  suddenly,  swift  as  the  birth  of 
thought,  his  whole  being  underwent  a  transforma- 
tion. Every  muscle  in  his  body  went  tense  and 
rigid.  His  breath  came  short  and  quick.  His  thin 
face  shaded  grey.  For  upon  that  window,  revealed 
against  the  background  of  electric  light,  stared 
forth  the  shameless  challenge : 

SIDNEY  STONE,  M.D. 
Surgeon  and  Physician. 

***** 

In  the  ground-glass  arch  over  the  main  entrance 
to  the  building  was  a  name  "The  Mandan,"  and 
just  for  a  moment  before  it  the  man  paused,  indeci- 
sive. The  name  was  unfamiliar.  The  entrance  too 
was  changed  and  he  inspected  it  narrowly,  distrust- 
fully. To  make  certain  of  its  identity  he  moved 
back  to  the  street  and  glanced  up.  The  familiar 
number  of  stories  towered  above  his  head.  The 
stone  was  the  old  reddish-brown  jasper.  Last  of 
all  the  single  lighted  window  was  still  aglow. 
Swiftly,  almost  precipitately,  he  returned.  The  ele- 


The  Release  1 1 

vator  was  waiting  just  within,  he  could  see  the  light 
inside  the  cage,  and  he  advanced  toward  it  hur- 
riedly. What  seemed  to  him  two  doorways  led 
thereto  and  he  chose  the  nearest.  It  gave  an  inch — 
two;  then  stuck  and  his  face  met  the  heavy  plate 
glass  with  a  blow.  Baffled,  uncomprehending,  he 
tried  again,  shoved  with  all  his  might — heard  of  a 
sudden  a  satirically  amused  laugh  behind  him. 

"Soak  it,  mister,  soak  it,"  encouraged  the  owner 
of  the  voice.  "You  don't  shove  hard  enough  is  all." 

The  man  turned,  and  something  in  his  face  cleared 
the  mirth  from  that  of  the  other  instantly.  The 
latter  was  not  over  three  feet  six  and  he  prepared 
to  flee. 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  the  man  abruptly. 

"You,"  equally  promptly;  then  with  the  toleration 
of  superior  wisdom  he  added:  "Try  the  other  side, 
neighbour.  It  works  that  way,  you  know." 

Within  the  corridor  the  man  found  his  face  burn- 
ing hotly.  It  was  a  trifling  incident  seemingly,  yet 
it  sapped  at  his  self-confidence,  added  to  his  impres- 
sion of  alienation  and  incompetency.  He  had  in- 
tended to  take  the  elevator,  the  car  was  waiting,  yet 
under  the  influence  of  the  new  mood  he  approached 
the  stairs  instead. 

"Better  ride  up,  mister,"  suggested  a  patronising 
voice. 

The  man  halted,  looked  uncertainly  at  the  uni- 
formed youth  who  had  spoken,  hesitated  like  a 


12  The  Quest  Eternal 

freed  slave  who  hears  a  voice  of  command — then 
instinctively  obeyed.  "Third  floor,"  he  directed. 

"No  one  on  that  floor  now,  mister." 

"Not  Dr.  Stone?" 

"Just  brought  him  down  a  couple  of  minutes  ago." 

The  passenger  shuffled  on  his  feet.  "Take  me  up 
anyway,"  he  said  at  last. 

The  office,  the  old  office,  was  empty  when  the  man 
entered.  Just  inside  the  waiting-room  door  he 
stopped  to  glance  around  him.  Evidences  of  taste 
and  of  prosperity  were  all  about.  The  furniture 
was  uniformly  of  leather.  His  feet  sank  noiselessly 
into  heavy  rugs.  The  latest  novels  and  periodicals 
lay  here  and  there  as  they  had  been  cast  aside  by  a 
waiting  throng.  Gingerly,  all  but  apologetically, 
the  visitor  walked  across  the  room,  inspecting  by  the 
way.  A  painting,  a  signed  master,  caught  his  eye 
and  he  looked  at  it  dumbly.  Bit  by  bit  the  white 
hot  flood  that  had  mounted  to  his  brain  the  instant 
that  window  first  sprang  alight  was  receding,  cool- 
ing. Fan  it  with  memory  as  he  might  he  could  not 
maintain  the  heat.  Despite  his  will,  despite  all 
logic  he  began  to  feel  himself  a  trespasser.  In  vain 
he  looked  about  for  a  familiar  article  to  testify  to 
his  right  of  presence,  to  give  colour  to  his  conten- 
tion of  equity.  There  was  none  nor  a  suggestion  of 
one.  The  realisation  appalled  him,  disconcerted 
him.  On  the  street  that  first  second,  with  the  tingle 
in  his  finger  tips,  he  had  felt  himself  the  master,  the 


The  Release  13 

avenging  spirit,  the  dictator.  Now,  the  actual  not 
the  fancied  staring  him  in  the  face,  he  realised  with 
a  sickening  feeling  of  incompetency  his  mistake. 
He  had  thought  to  enter,  to  take  possession,  to  crush 
the  feeble  resistance  he  anticipated  with  an  over- 
whelming flood  of  reprehension.  Now,  ere  the 
moment  arrived,  he  realised  the  inadequacy  of  his 
weapon,  the  futility  of  his  design.  This  his  thought, 
his  augmenting  conviction  as  he  traversed  the 
length  of  the  outer  room.  Blindly,  unmitigatedly 
unjust  as  circumstances  had  been  to  him,  in  result 
they  had,  nevertheless,  been  effective.  Rebel  as  he 
might  against  them,  their  decision  had  notwithstand- 
ing been  unalterable.  Stripped  of  the  garment  of 
bitterness  and  of  self-pity  which  he  had  himself 
woven  he  saw  things  as  they  were,  not  as  they 
should  be;  and  amid  them  his  own  figure  glared 
forth,  naked,  without  resource,  beaten.  He  had 
reached  the  end  of  the  room  ere  this,  had  thought 
to  pass  into  the  apartment  beyond ;  but  like  a  barrier 
the  truth  prevented  him.  Miserable,  humiliated, 
vacillating,  again  he  halted,  looked  about  him  un- 
certainly; and  that  moment  his  eye  fell  upon  a  full- 
length  mirror  in  the  corner — and  in  the  centre  of 
the  glass,  staring  him  back,  his  own  life-size  image. 
For  years,  for  so  long  he  had  forgotten  the  date, 
he  had  not  seen  his  own  reflection.  In  a  seemingly 
endless  routine  of  labour  and  of  sleep  and  of 
mingled  bitterness  the  mere  thought  thereof  had 


14  The  Quest  Eternal 

passed  into  abeyance.  Dully,  almost  indifferently, 
he  had  been  conscious  of  a  physical  alteration.  If, 
however,  regret  thereat  had  entered  his  mind  at  all 
it  had  been  ignored  as  a  thing  of  little  moment,  the 
faintest  imaginable  cloud  added  to  a  horizon  al- 
ready black  as  night.  Now  of  a  sudden,  confronted 
unexpectedly  by  the  reality,  the  revelation  of  the 
actual  alteration  was  startling.  At  first  glance  he 
could  not  comprehend  it,  could  not  give  it  credence. 
Dumbly,  as  he  had  paused  before  the  painting,  he 
went  over  the  revealed  actuality  line  by  line.  The 
hair  of  his  own  head,  prematurely  thinned  and  grey; 
the  great  weary  eyes  with  the  hollows  beneath ;  the 
stooped  shoulders ;  the  awkward,  almost  grotesque, 
outline  of  his  body;  the  hands,  big-jointed  and  cal- 
lous— one  by  one  he  took  in  the  details;  deliber- 
ately, critically,  with  a  sort  of  abstract  fascination, 
gathered  bit  by  bit  the  impression  the  ensemble 
conveyed,  in  so  doing  of  a  sudden  moved — and  that 
moment  the  spell  of  the  abstract,  the  isolate  was 
broken.  That  instant,  in  a  conquering,  overwhelm- 
ing flood,  he  realised  for  the  first  time  to  the  full 
what  he  was.  That  second,  for  the  first  time,  like- 
wise, he  comprehended  with  a  crushing  certainty  the 
hopeless,  pitiful  futility  of  his  again  taking  up  the 
fight.  Before,  a  spark  of  personal  ambition  had 
still  lingered.  Seemingly  extinguished,  it  had  never- 
the  less  at  unexpected  times  flashed  forth.  Now, 
as  there  alone  he  stared  his  own  reflection  back,  he 


The  Release  15 

realised  to  finality  absolute  that  it  would  never  do 
so  again.  With  wide  open  eyes  he  had  watched  it 
flicker  and  go  out.  With  wide  open  eyes  he  was 
observing  the  blackness  where  it  had  been. 

How  long  he  remained  there  alone  he  did  not 
exactly  know.  He  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  have  for- 
gotten time,  to  have  forgotten  place.  Of  one  thing 
alone  he  was  conscious:  that  he  was  very  weary, 
and  in  abandon  absolute  he  flung  himself  into  the 
nearest  seat,  his  face  toward  the  open  window,  his 
wide  open  eyes  staring  out  into  the  night. 

Thus  he  sat  as  time  drifted  by.  Thus  he  re- 
mained as  the  elevator  purred  up  to  the  floor  and 
a  rapid  professional  step  clicked  across  the  corridor. 
Thus  he  sat  as  the  newcomer  entered.  Then  of  a 
sudden  he  awoke ;  and  as  he  arose  and  involuntarily 
turned,  across  the  expanse  of  years,  over  the  graves 
of  hopes  and  ambitions  dead,  through  memory's 
haze  of  cowardice  and  of  bitter  injustice,  the  one- 
time partners  stood  facing. 

A  moment,  a  long  moment,  they  stood  so  while 
each  took  the  measure  of  the  other.  What  McLeod 
saw  was  a  middle-aged  man,  a  bit  corpulent,  yet 
active;  a  full  face  covered  with  a  closely  cropped 
beard;  a  general  impression  of  tailoring  beyond 
criticism;  a  soft  white  hand  outlined  against  a 
small  black  medicine  case.  What  Stone  saw  we 
already  know.  What  he  thought  he  did  not  reveal ; 
but  as,  after  that  first  moment  of  mutual  recogni- 


1 6  The  Quest  Eternal 

tion,  he  passed  through  the  room  and  mechanically 
put  down  hat  and  case,  the  silence  throbbed  with 
meaning. 

A  half  minute  later  he  returned,  and  in  that  time 
his  decision,  whatever  it  was,  was  made. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  he  suggested.  He  made  no 
advance  of  friendship  nor  of  enmity,  of  contrition 
nor  of  challenge,  but  as  the  other  obeyed  took  a 
place  opposite.  "I  have  expected  this,"  he  com- 
mented simply.  "To  whatever  you  wish  to  say  I 
will  listen." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say — yet,"  announced  a  voice 
low. 

A  pause,  then  the  query  direct:  "Why  did  you 
come,  then?" 

"I  spoke  in  the  present  tense."  Again  the  answer- 
ing voice  was  low.  "I  had  much  to  say  when  I 
came." 

"And  now?" 

"The  mood  has  passed — for  the  moment  at  least." 

"And  in  its  place?" 

"I  have  decided  instead  to  do  what  you  volun- 
teered to  do:  to  listen." 

Again  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met,  in  a  repetition 
of  that  first  searching  scrutiny.  It  was  Stone  who 
first  looked  away. 

"You  make  it  difficult  for  me,  very,"  he  said.  "I 
can  read  human  nature  a  bit  and  besides  I  know 
you  of  old.  An  explanation " 


The  Release  17 

"You  may  omit  that." 

"I  thought  so.    Or  an  apology " 

"I  too  can  read  human  nature.  It's  useless  to  per- 
jure yourself." 

Stone  nodded  gravely ;  but  on  the  chair  arm  where 
it  lay  one  white  hand  had  clenched  tightly. 

"There  is  but  one  other  thing  in  which  you  can  be 
interested  then."  He  looked  at  his  companion  ner- 
vously. "I  refer  to — reparation." 

No  answer. 

"I've  thought  that  matter  over  quite  a  bit;  as  I 
said  before,  I've  been  expecting — this,  and  I've 
come  to  a  decision."  Slowly,  measuredly  came  the 
words,  as  though  the  speaker  were  reading  from  a 
printed  page.  "I  have  no  more  inclination  than  you 
to  go  into  a  discussion  of  the  past.  I'll  spare  you 
and  myself  any  mention  of  the  motive  which 
prompts  the  offer  I'm  going  to  make.  I'll  merely 
say  this:  I've  been  fairly  prosperous  the  last  few 
years.  I've  saved  some  money,  not  much  but  a 
little.  It's  in  the  bank  over  on  the  corner.  I'll  tell 
you  the  amount  and  write  you  a  blank  cheque 
against  it.  You  may  fill  it  out  for  as  much  or  as 
little  as  you  wish."  Again  the  grip  on  the  chair 
arm  tightened  as  he  met  the  other's  look.  "If  you 
see  fit  to  write  the  limit  I  have  no  comment  to  make. 
If  less — it  is  as  you  choose."  He  looked  away  and 
his  hand  fell  loose  into  his  lap.  "That,  I  believe, 
is  all  I  have  to  say." 


1 8  The  Quest  Eternal 

Once  more  silence  fell;  a  long  silence  broken  at 
last  by  the  single  suggestion:  "And  in  return?" 

"I  shall  expect,  demand,  that  you  disappear." 
Again  it  was  the  premeditated,  precise  and  unhesi- 
tating. "Where  or  how  I  shall  not  ask.  You  are 
merely  to  disappear  and  never  in  your  life  inter- 
fere with  me  or  mine  again.  I  shall  ask  your  word 
on  this." 

"And  your — future?" 

"I  don't  know  as  that  has  any  bearing  on  the  dis- 
cussion." 

"Consider  it  merely  curiosity,  then."  Just  per- 
ceptibly McLeod  had  straightened  in  his  seat.  "I 
repeat :  And  you  ?" 

Stone  hesitated.  A  tinge  of  colour  appeared  on 
his  cheek  above  the  brown  beard  line. 

"To  satisfy  your  curiosity,  I  intend  to  remain 
right  here.  I'm  a  part  of  the  town,  of  the  com- 
munity. Its  life  is  my  life.  So  far  as  I  know  I 
shall  remain  here  always." 

"Thanks."  Again  the  voice  was  low;  but  steady 
now  and  cold,  icy  cold.  "And — myself?  Had 
you  formed  any  plans  as  to  my  future  after  the — 
disappearance?" 

"No." 

"No  location  to  suggest  where  a  practitioner  of 
my  qualifications  and  with — capital  could  find  a 
congenial  home?" 

Stone's  lips  tightened,  but  in  silence. 


The  Release  19 

"And  the  sorrow  with  which  my  friends  would 
witness  my  departure — I  was  born  within  ten  miles 
of  here,  you  know — you  had  arranged  to  assuage 
that?" 

Stone's  shoulders  lifted,  tolerantly,  eloquently. 

"When  you're  through  with  this — repartee  we'll 
talk  business,"  he  commented. 

"And  our  own  partnership,"  ignored  McLeod, 
"the  contract  has  never  been  dissolved  you  recall — 
did  you  think  how  embarrassing  that  would 
be?" 

Sidney  Stone  stiffened.  Not  a  tinge  but  a  wave 
of  red  coloured  his  face. 

"You  see  fit  to  be  insulting,"  he  remarked. 

"Insulting !"  It  was  the  flame  to  tinder.  "Insult- 
ing !  You  with  your  knowledge  of  the  past,  with 
the  words  of  your  proposition  still  fresh  in  your 
mouth,  speak  to  me  of  insult?" 

The  other  opened  his  lips  to  speak;  then  closed 
them  again  and  sat  for  a  moment  drumming  with 
his  well-manicured  fingers  on  the  wood. 

"It's  a  pure  waste  of  energy  to  discuss  anything 
except  business  between  yourself  and  myself,"  he 
said  slowly  at  last.  "Besides  I  make  it  a  rule  never 
to  bandy  words  in  my  own  office  and  I  don't  choose 
to  break  it  to  please  you.  As  I've  told  you  I've 
threshed  the  whole  matter  out  and  have  made  my 
proposition.  It's  still  open.  You  can  accept  or  de- 
cline as  you  wish." 


2o  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Accept  I"  McLeod  stared  at  the  man  before  him, 
his  deep-set  eyes  glowing  beneath  the  cavernous 
brows.  "Did  you  ever  in  a  sane  moment  fancy 
that  I  would  accept  a  cent  of  your  money,  Sidney 
Stone?"  His  breath  was  coming  short  and  he 
halted  in  a  period  of  involuntary  eloquence.  "You 
spoke  of  insult  and  voice  that  suggestion  now 
again?" 

Stone  shrugged,  elaborately,  self-consciously. 

"Cut  out  heroics,  please,  and  use  plain  Anglo- 
Saxon.  Yes  or  no  will  answer  the  question." 

For  a  moment  the  listener  did  not  speak  or  stir  or 
utter  a  sound;  merely  sat  there  in  his  seat,  inert, 
silently  struggling,  terrible.  Unbelievable  it  seems 
to  chronicle  that  he  did  not  act.  Murder  was  in  his 
heart  that  moment,  neither  more  nor  less.  Relig- 
ion, moral  obligation  had  passed  him  by  and  be- 
come a  myth  long  ago.  It  was  not  that  which  pre- 
vented. Fear  of  punishment  he  had  none.  Repara- 
tion carries  no  terror  to  one  whom  sleep  has  for- 
saken for  countless  inky  nights.  It  was  not  that. 
In  the  back  of  his  very  soul,  back  of  civilisation  and 
of  reason  and  of  passion,  stronger  than  all,  a  still 
small  voice  was  whispering  to  him  that  night;  whis- 
pering insistently  and  he  could  not  act.  Ambition 
of  self,  consideration  of  self  had  burned  dead, 
burned  to  ashes;  but  this  other  something,  to  it  akin, 
its  successor,  was  alive  and  glowing  brightly,  gather- 
ing strength  moment  by  moment.  No  one  could 


The  Release  21 

see,  no  one  could  know ;  yet  it  was  there,  dominant, 
irresistible.  Until  this  time  the  man  himself  had 
scarcely  been  conscious  of  its  presence.  When  he 
had  entered  that  room  he  had  been  unconscious 
thereof;  yet  now,  in  the  space  of  seconds,  it  had 
developed  full  grown,  had  become  the  motif  of  his 
life. 

Thus  he  sat  there  and  thus  opposite  the  other 
waited.  He  likewise  did  not  stir,  that  man  who 
waited ;  yet  he  knew  or  thought  he  knew  what  was 
taking  place  in  the  other's  mind.  Indifferent  he 
seemed,  this  man,  calmly  observant ;  yet  that  aloof- 
ness likewise  was  upon  the  surface  only.  Never  more 
alert  in  his  life  than  at  this  time  was  the  impassive 
middle-aged  doctor,  never  more  on  guard.  As  he 
had  said,  he  was  expecting  the  present  moment  and 
was  prepared.  A  brooding  imagination  had  pre- 
saged more  than  the  possibility  of  violence.  Upon 
it  he  had  planned.  To  a  casual  spectator  this  readi- 
ness would  not  have  been  revealed.  One  hand 
still  lay  as  before  idly  upon  his  lap;  but  another, 
a  close  observer,  would  have  noted  that  its 
mate  was  not  visible.  Instead  it  was  hid  with- 
in the  pocket  of  his  coat  and  therein  it  was  not 
alone. 

Thus  they  sat  there  waiting,  thus,  while  a  minute 
drifted  by — and  another;  thus,  until  Sidney  Stone, 
master  of  the  situation  as  he  knew  himself  to  be, 
could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  Against  his  will, 


22  The  Quest  Eternal 

against  a  carefully  prearranged  indifference,  he 
turned — to  find  the  other  observing  him  openly, 
unwaveringly,  with  an  intentness  that  was  all  but 
uncanny.  That  it  was  so  did  not  surprise  him.  He 
had  anticipated  the  fact,  in  a  subconscious  way  had 
felt  the  gaze  even  when  turned  away;  but  now,  the 
reality  before  him,  something,  an  indescribable 
something  which  he  did  not  understand,  warned 
him  that  the  unexpected  was  imminent.  Had  he 
read  menace,  hate,  physical  violence  he  would  not 
have  been  surprised;  but  in  a  flash  he  realised  that 
none  of  these  motives  were  dominant.  Something 
else,  something  bigger,  more  masterful,  had  taken 
control  of  the  other  those  last  moments  of  silence; 
something  at  which  until  light  came  he  could  but 
speculate.  Wondering,  groping  for  the  revelation, 
he  waited.  Out  of  the  unexpected  at  last  it  came — 
and  in  the  wake  of  a  question. 

"As  you  know" — it  was  McLeod's  voice,  but 
changed  now,  full,  self-controlled,  compelling — "as 
you  know,  I  was  just  released  to-day.  For  that 
reason  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you.  Are  you  mar- 
ried?" 

Had  the  other  begged  his  pardon  Stone  could  not 
have  been  more  surprised,  more  utterly  at  sea.  Out 
of  the  maze,  almost  involuntarily,  he  answered  the 
query. 

"No,"  he  said. 

Apparently  satisfied,  McLeod  dropped  the  lead. 


The  Release  23 

A  moment  thereafter  he  sat  as  before,  mysterious, 
icy  cold;  then  perforce,  swiftly,  cumulatively  he  be- 
gan to  speak. 

"What  I  am  going  to  say,  Sidney  Stone,"  he  said, 
"you  do  not  expect  to  hear.  What  I  had  intended 
to  say  when  I  found  that  you,  of  all  men,  were 
back  here  was  very  different-p- but  let  that  pass. 
Had  some  one  told  me  a  year  ago,  an  hour  ago 
even,  that  I  would  say  it  at  all  I  should  have  called 
that  person  mad.  But  let  that  pass  also.  Things 
are  as  they  are.  In  the  years  since  I  have  seen  you 
I  have  lived  many  lifetimes — each  different  from 
the  others.  Since  the  time  when  I  saw  your  light 
and  the  name  on  your  window  I  have  added  an- 
other." Just  perceptibly  he  stirred  in  his  place  but 
his  steady  gaze  did  not  waver. 

"You  say  you  have  considered  the  situation  which 
faces  us  now  and  threshed  it  out.  You  are  not 
alone.  Night  after  night  in  a  place  where  there 
are  no  seasons,  I  have  listened  to  the  footstep  of  a 
guard  on  the  tiles  outside  my  cell  and  thought — 
and  ever  in  my  thought  you  have  had  a  place.  I 
saw  then  in  the  future  two  possible  contingencies. 
In  one  you  were  a  man — and  I  wished  you  no  evil. 
In  another  you  were  not  a  man — and  I  am  human." 
Again  for  an  instant  the  voice  halted  and  for  that 
space  Stone  had  the  impression  of  a  menace  more 
terrible  than  words  could  convey.  "Beyond  those 
two  contingencies  I  could  not  plan.  They  seemed 


24  The  Quest  Eternal 

all  adequate,  to  include  the  possible.  With  them  I 
walked  forth  free  to-day." 

Involuntarily,  momentarily  the  voice  halted;  then 
almost  ere  the  listener  had  realised  the  fact  it  was 
speaking  anew. 

"I  repeat  this  was  the  way  I  had  threshed  it  out. 
This  was  my  ultimatum  until  an  hour  ago.  Then 
came  the  lost  life — the  life  which  puts  me  where  I 
am  now.  Beginning  it  you  know  what  happened, 
you  had  expected  it  to  happen;  for  it  was  then  I 
found — you.  So  far  all  was  according  to  schedule. 
The  one  bit  of  tinder  that  you  knew  would  survive 
all  these  years  blazed  at  sight  of  your  name — ex- 
actly as  you  anticipated  it  would  do.  I  didn't  know 
it  then,  but  I  realise  it  all  now.  It  was  still  burning 
when  I  came  here ;  the  last  flicker  of  personal  ambi- 
tion. Then  at  last  something  which  you  did  not 
expect  happened.  Then  I  awoke.  How  or  why 
is  immaterial.  The  fact  remains.  After  that 
awakening,  for  the  first  time  I  knew  myself  as  I  am ; 
beaten,  burned  out,  cowed.  Before,  I  had  deluded 
myself  with  dreams  of  the  future.  Since  then  I 
have  done  so  no  more." 

Unexpectedly  the  voice  halted.  Simultaneously 
the  long,  ungainly  figure  gathered  itself  together, 
leaned  far  forward  in  its  seat. 

"You  are  wondering  what  all  this  is  leading  to. 
I'll  not  keep  you  in  suspense  much  longer.  Any 
man  with  red  blood  in  his  veins,  who  knows  the 


The  Release  25 

difference  between  you  and  me,  would  say  there  was 
but  one  solution.  I  won't  say  what  it  is — for  you 
know.  You  think  you  are  safe  and  prepared,  Sid- 
ney Stone;  but  I  could  bring  that  solution  to  pass 
right  now,  with  my  own  hands.  I  know  well 
enough  what  you  have  concealed  in  your  hand.  It's 
not  fear  of  that  which  prevents  me  doing  it  now, 
not  that  nor  because  I  haven't  sufficient  reason.  It's 
merely  that  I  see  things  as  they  are,  see  the  useless- 
ness  of  revenge.  What  I  am  I  am.  What  you 
have  done  if  you  would  you  could  not  undo.  I  do 
not  forgive  you,  I  merely  accept.  For  that  reason 
I  am  going  now  in  a  moment.  Again  I  repeat  I  did 
not  come  with  that  intent,  but  I  have  awakened.  But 
before  I  go  I  have  one  thing  to  say;  and  if  you 
forget  everything  else  in  life,  if  as  in  the  past  you 
again  forget  honour  and  justice  and  good  faith 
between  man  and  man,  don't  forget  this:  for  it  is 
a  warning  and  I  shall  never  speak  it  again."  Bit 
by  bit  as  he  had  spoken  McLeod  had  leaned  far- 
ther and  farther  forward.  Bit  by  bit  his  speech  had 
slackened.  Now  at  last  was  the  climax,  the  revela- 
tion, the  ultimatum,  and  the  words  which  bore  it 
came  individual  and  distinct,  like  drops  of  falling 
water. 

"You,  Sidney  Stone,  have  ruined  my  life;  ruined 
it  utterly,  irrevocably.  Out  of  selfishness  and  of 
cowardice  you  did  this  thing.  That  was  long  ago; 
but  you  have  not  changed.  As  you  were  then  you 


26  The  Quest  Eternal 

are  to-day,  now.  As  you  are  now  you  will  always  be. 
It  was  this  I  had  in  mind  when  I  asked  you  the 
question  which  you  did  not  understand — if  you 
were  married.  Between  you  and  me  things  are  as 
they  are.  Nothing  which  I  can  do  will  alter  them. 
One  thing  though,  Sidney  Stone,  I  can  do  and  as 
God  is  my  witness  I  will  do.  I  can  prevent  a  life 
like  yours  reproducing  in  kind.  Me  you  have 
beaten,  man;  unfairly,  yet  nevertheless  beaten.  I 
accept  the  issue.  In  the  big  scheme  of  things,  how- 
ever, your  life  and  mine  are  mere  incidents  in  par- 
allel running  chains.  Please  nature,  through  my 
chain  my  life  will  go  on.  What  I  wished  to  do, 
what  I  would  have  done  perhaps,  will  yet  be  done, 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  accept,  that  I  pass  you 
by.  Run  out  your  life  of  selfishness  and  of  coward- 
ice as  you  will.  I  shall  not  disturb  it  or  molest  it 
again.  But  with  you,  man,  it  and  your  name  must 
end.  You  know  me  of  old,  that  I  never  told  you  a 
lie  nor  promised  you  a  thing  which  I  did  not  fulfil. 
Now  for  the  second  time  I  swear  that  with  you  it 
shall  end.  Do  not  as  you  value  your  life  marry  or 
think  of  marriage.  I  do  not  wish  your  blood  upon 
my  hands,  but  I  have  sworn.  If  you  disobey,  as 
God  is  watching  us  I  will  do  this  thing."  Of  a  sud- 
den, with  the  last  words  his  great  clumsy  hands 
dropped  to  the  chair  at  his  side,  his  fingers  closed 
until  the  skin  blanched  white  at  the  knuckles.  Simul- 
taneously his  whole  body  strained  forward  until 


The  Release  27 

the  big  muscles  of  his  neck  stood  forth  clear. 
Slowly,  tensely  from  his  lips  dropped  the  words 
of  a  question.  "Do  you  doubt  me,  Sidney  Stone?" 
For  a  second,  and  another,  the  man  opposite  did 
not  speak.  Not  once  in  all  those  last  minutes  had 
he  interrupted,  had  he  uttered  a  sound.  No  need  to 
tell  him  that  it  was  the  last  word,  the  ultimatum 
between  the  two,  the  other  was  speaking.  No  need 
to  tell  him  of  its  deadly  earnestness.  In  every  life 
there  is  a  moment  of  suspense,  a  turning  point,  and 
as  now  he  listened  to  that  steady,  dripping  flow  he 
realised  to  finality  that  his  had  come.  Far  too 
big  was  the  moment  for  affectation  or  dissimulation. 
They  two  were  down  to  fundamentals  at  last,  man 
to  man.  Thus  he,  the  dictator  of  a  bit  ago,  sat 
there  passive,  listening.  Thus  bit  by  bit  as  the  ab- 
stract merged  into  the  concrete,  the  personal,  he 
felt  the  noose  tightening.  He  did  not  rebel.  He 
did  not  question.  He  could  not.  He  was  his 
natural  self  now,  his  naked  coward  self — and  he 
listened.  Shade  by  shade  as  the  seconds  went  by 
and  that  relentless  drip  continued  to  fall,  the  colour 
left  his  face — yet  he  listened.  Shade  by  shade  like- 
wise, as  though  the  tightening  noose  were  real,  not 
figurative,  his  muscles  relaxed.  Thus  he  sat  to  the 
end.  Thus  he  remained  after  the  other's  voice  was 
silent  and  he  should  have  answered.  Thus  until 
out  of  the  silence,  insistent,  compelling,  the  query 
was  repeated: 


28  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Answer,  Sidney  Stone,"  demanded  the  voice. 
"Do  you  doubt  me?" 

With  an  effort  the  listener  roused.  Unconscious 
of  the  motion  one  soft  white  hand  sought  its  mate, 
gripped  tight. 

"No,  I  do  not  doubt  you,  Andrew  McLeod,"  he 
said. 

"And  you  abide  by  the  decision?"  swiftly.  "You 
swear  that  while  you  live  you  will  never  marry?" 

"Yes,"  again  monotonously. 

"Swear  it!" 

Silence,  a  speaking,  gripping  silence. 

"Swear  it,  I  say." 

"I  swear  it — before  God." 

A  moment  they  sat  so,  motionless  as  figures  in 
clay,  unconscious,  isolate,  vital;  then  of  a  sudden, 
with  a  flood  of  realisation,  the  present,  the  normal 
returned.  Swift  again  as  the  changing  scene  of  a 
tableau,  the  tense,  dominant  figure  of  McLeod 
went  lax.  With  an  effort  he  arose ;  and  as  he  did 
so  his  whole  loose-knit,  ungainly  frame  was 
a-tremble.  Awkwardly,  consciously,  not  as  a  con- 
queror but  as  a  trespasser,  he  started  for  the  door. 
Words,  an  apology,  a  petition,  sprang  to  his  lips; 
against  his  will,  mocking,  humiliating,  found  voice. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for — intruding,  for  being — 
rude,"  he  stammered  dully.  He  did  not  pause,  he 
did  not  glance  back.  "I  couldn't  help  it,  I — I — " 
The  door  closed  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   FLICKER  ON   THE    HEARTH 

"I  WAS  thirty-six  in  May,  my  last  birthday."  The 
voice  was  matter  of  fact.  The  speaker  showed 
neither  reserve  nor  ostentation  at  the  avowal, 
simply  went  on  with  her  work  as  though  she  had 
mentioned  the  time  of  day.  "I'm  just  two  years 
younger  than  yourself,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  remember  now.  It  had  escaped  me  for 
the  moment.  I  find  that  I've  forgotten  many  little 
things."  One  of  the  speaker's  great  jointed  hands 
brushed  his  face  absently;  then  returned  to  hang 
awkwardly  in  his  lap,  after  the  manner  of  a  work- 
ing man's  hands  when  idle.  "I,"  he  laughed 
forcedly,  "don't  believe  I  could  have  told,  off-hand, 
my  own  age." 

The  woman  went  on  with  her  work,  silently, 
capably.  The  comment  did  not  seem  to  call  for  a 
rejoinder  and  she  made  none.  The  piece  on  which 
she  was  sewing  was  fine  work,  and  once  she  lifted 
it  close  to  her  eyes  and  peered  at  it  with  near- 
sighted intentness ;  then  dropped  the  cloth  back  to 
her  apron  and  went  on  with  mechanical  accuracy. 

For  a  long  time,  for  probably  longer  than  either 
realised,  there  was  silence  in  the  tiny  room.  The 


30  The  Quest  Eternal 

house  was  isolate,  set  far  back  from  the  street  in  a 
big,  old-fashioned  lawn.  No  one  else  was  about. 
The  time  was  well  toward  midday,  and  no  inter- 
ruption came  from  outside.  They  merely  sat 
there,  the  woman  working,  the  man  watching  her 
active  fingers  as  though  there  were  a  fascination  in 
their  capable  movement.  Not  until  they  again 
paused  and  approached  their  owner's  eyes  while, 
with  near-sighted  effort,  she  threaded  the  needle 
anew,  did  the  man  speak.  Then  abruptly,  directly, 
came  a  new  query. 

"Is  that  work  for  yourself,  Mary?"  he  asked. 

"No."  Again  the  voice  was  matter  of  fact.  "I 
shouldn't  be  doing  it  to-day  if  it  were  my  own.  It's 
for  a  customer  of  mine." 

"You  do  this  sort  of  thing  regularly,  then?" 

"One  has  to  live,"  simply. 

The  man  shifted  restlessly  in  his  seat.  Again  in 
unconscious  movement  one  of  the  labour-stiffened 
hands  stroked  his  face. 

"Somehow  I  never  thought  of  you  as  doing — 
this,"  he  hesitated.  "When  I  heard  your  father 
and  mother  had  both  gone  I  imagined " 

"The  house  is  clear,"  anticipated  the  other,  "but 
there  are  taxes  and  it  has  to  be  kept  up."  The 
voice  halted.  "Anyway,  it's  as  well.  One  can't 
do  nothing  when  one's  alone.  It's  the  short  cut  to 
the  asylum." 

"Mary!     Mary,  I " 


A  Flicker  on  the  Hearth  31 

Again  silence  fell:  the  former  intimate,  isolate 
silence  of  two.  The  man  got  no  further.  For  a 
second  he  had  aroused;  but  for  a  second  only. 
Then  as  suddenly  he  had  lapsed  into  the  former 
lethargic  passivity.  It  was  the  third  day  since  he 
had  come  forth  from  that  frowning  pile  upon  the 
distant  hill,  the  second  time  he  had  called,  and  they 
two  had  been  so  alive ;  yet  not  once  had  he  passed 
the  dead  line  of  conventional  commonplace.  At  it 
he  halted  now,  vacillating,  procrastinating,  self- 
tortured  with  his  own  impotency.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  midday  heat  the  low-ceiled  room  had 
grown  stifflingly  close.  Through  the  open  windows 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  green  turf  without 
and  the  shadows  from  the  big  trees.  The  heavy 
pungent  odour  of  inanimate  life  drifted  in  to  his 
nostrils,  tantalised  him,  called  to  him  insistently — 
almost  as  it  had  called  that  first  hour  of  his  release. 
The  intensity  of  its  appeal  drowned  for  the  moment 
every  other  thought,  every  other  sensation,  and 
with  a  sudden  involuntary  motion  he  got  to  his  feet. 

"Would  you  mind  going  outside  for  a  bit, 
Mary?"  he  asked.  "I'm  hungry,  starving  hungry, 
for  it." 

"Mind?"  The  busy  hands  stopped  their  work. 
"I  don't  think  I  understand." 

"You  wouldn't  care  if  some  one,  some  one  you 
knew,  saw  you  there  with  me?" 

A  moment  Mary  Temple  was  silent,  looking  at 


32  The  Quest  Eternal 

him.  Her  glance  was  level  and  candid.  Her 
colour  did  not  change.  Then  rolling  her  work  into 
a  ball  she  too  arose. 

"Come,"  she  said,  and  led  the  way  without. 

Tacitly,  obediently,  the  man  followed;  his  feet, 
though  he  did  not  know,  shuffling  tell-tale  on  the 
bare  floor  of  the  kitchen  through  which  they 
passed. 

Beneath  the  largest  tree  on  the  lawn  was  a  home- 
made pine  bench ;  at  one  time  painted  a  vivid  green, 
but  now  faded  and  weather-marked.  Upon  it  the 
woman  adjusted  her  work  and  made  room  for  her 
companion  at  her  side.  But  he  did  not  accept.  In- 
stead he  remained  standing,  his  eyes  shifting  from 
the  street  in  front  to  the  houses  at  either  side.  He 
did  not  speak  a  word  or  even  look  at  her,  yet  by  an 
instinct  the  woman  understood. 

"Do  so  if  you  wish,"  she  said. 

"Thanks."  Almost  before  he  had  spoken  the 
man  was  stretched  at  her  feet  on  the  sod.  "It's 
been  so  long  since  I've  smelled — this."  He  looked 
up  at  her  steadily.  Beneath  the  overhanging  brows 
his  eyes  were  aglow.  His  tongue  loosened.  "I 
was  in  the  factory,  you  know,"  he  explained,  "and 
all  day  from  the  window  in  front  I  saw  nothing  but 
stone.  At  night  it  was  the  same.  Week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  year  after  year  wherever 
I  looked  it  was  but  a  repetition:  granite,  granite, 
nothing  but  granite.  It  bounded  the  earth.  It  cut 


A  Flicker  on  the  Hearth  33 

off  every  living  growing  thing.  Even  the  sky  had 
it  for  a  border,  was  set  in  the  same  frame."  He 
closed  his  eyes,  his  great  hands  tightened  involun- 
tarily until  they  were  stained  with  the  green  of  the 
sod  in  his  grip.  "God,  how  I  grew  to  hate  it!" 

The  woman  had  taken  up  her  work  anew.  Her 
fingers  did  not  pause  nor  her  needle  lose  a  stitch. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"I  used  to  think  I'd  go  insane  some  time,"  he  wan- 
dered on,  "as  a  person  will  out  on  the  desert  from 
thirst;  woi  •)  hope  I  should.  But  I  couldn't. 
Every  dav  would  think  was  the  end,  that  I'd 
stood  it  as  lono-  as  I  could;  and  then  the  next  day 
would  corn"  •••T*  it  would  be  the  same,  and  the  next, 
and  the  ne^ 

"Yes,"  sr  he  voice;  a  bit  lower  than  before  but 
even  and  m;  onless.  "I  think  I — understand." 

Slowly  the  -n's  lids  widened  and  his  eyes  sought 
his  companion's  face.  Silence  returned.  At  last 
the  woman's  glance  also  lifted,  met  the  other.  Her 
fingers  halted.  Time  stood  still. 

"And  I"-— it  was  the  crossing  of  the  dead  line — 
"think  I  also  understand,  Mary,"  said  the  man 
simply  at  last. 

Back  to  work  went  the  fingers,  in  and  out,  auto- 
matically, steadily. 

"We  all  have  to  learn  our  lesson  in  this  world, 
learn  to  wait,"  she  said. 

The  man  sat  up,  his  hands  locked  across  his  knees. 


34  The  Quest  Eternal 

"And  to  admit  defeat,"  he  added. 

"Temporarily,  yes." 

"Mary!" 

No  response. 

"Mary!"    The  tone  was  insistent,  compelling. 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  obeyed. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  tensely.  "Do  you  think 
there  is  hope  yet  for  me,  for — both  of  us?" 

"I" — there  had  been  a  pause,  a  long  pause — "I 
think  there  is  hope  for  you." 

"You  avoid  my  question." 

For  the  first  time  there  came  a  trace  of  colour  to 
the  woman's  cheeks.  For  the  first  time,  likewise, 
her  voice  lost  its  even  tenor. 

"No,"  she  said  swiftly,  "I  avoided  nothing.  I 
said  what  I  meant  and  I  meant  exactly  what  I  said. 
There  is  hope  yet  for  you,  worlds  of  hope.  You're 
not  an  old  man  or  even  a  middle-aged  man. 
You've  got  Scotch  blood  in  your  veins  and  that's 
good  fighting  blood.  You  come  of  a  long-lived 
race.  People  have  forgotten  the  past.  They'll 
be  ready  to  take  you  on  trust  and  judge  you  by 
your  merits."  She  halted  abruptly  and  mechani- 
cally picked  up  the  work  she  had  dropped.  "You 
have  more  than  hope,  you  have  almost  assurance," 
she  completed. 

"And  you  ?" — the  man's  eyes  had  not  left  her  face 
— "and  you,  Mary  Temple?" 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  quickly.     "I  am  and 


A  Flicker  on  the  Hearth  35 

will  continue  to  be  as  I  always  have  been.  I  never, 
you  know,  had  any  particular  ambition." 

"Mary!" 

"Anyway,  I'm  a  woman.  It  doesn't  matter  par- 
ticularly what  becomes  of  a  woman  so  long  as  she 
lives  and  has  enough  to  wear." 

McLeod's  eyes  dropped.  His  big  fingers  locked 
over  his  knees. 

"You  know  I  don't  believe  you  think  that,"  he 
said  simply. 

In  and  out,  in  and  out  went  the  needle  in  the 
woman's  fingers.  A  tiny  patch  of  sunlight,  sifting 
through  the  trees  above,  fell  on  her  lap  and  she 
brushed  at  it  absently,  as  though  it  was  a  fallen 
leaf. 

"Yes,  you're  right,"  she  corroborated,  and  again 
the  voice  was  even.  "I  was  bitter  for  the  moment, 
which  was  foolish.  That  doesn't  alter  what  I  said 
about  you,  however.  You  can  win  yet  if  you  wish. 
It  is  for  you  to  choose." 

"You  really  think  that?"  Involuntarily  the  man 
straightened,  accentuating  thereby  the  droop  of  his 
round  shoulders.  "You  still  believe  that  after  all 
these  years  I  can  take  my  place  with  other  men  and 
hold  my  own?" 

"Yes,  Andrew."  No  hesitation,  nor  uncertainty, 
nor  consciousness  at  the  intimacy  of  a  spoken  given 
name,  but  low  pitched  and  convincing:  "Yes, 
Andrew." 


2 6  The  Quest  Eternal 

Bit  by  bit  the  colour  mounted  the  listener's  face. 
In  sympathy  his  deep-set  eyes  glowed.  The  opti- 
mism, the  simple  certainty  of  the  other  was  con- 
tagious, intoxicating.  For  the  moment  it  overrode 
all  obstacle,  all  reality.  In  fancy,  time  shifted  for- 
ward, months,  years;  and  indefinite,  inconsequen- 
tial time.  He  saw  himself  not  as  he  was  but  as  he 
would  be,  as  he  once  had  every  assurance  of  being: 
the  leading  practitioner  in  the  community,  cease- 
lessly busy,  prosperous,  respected,  enthusiastic. 
Imagination  ran  on  and  on.  He  pictured  his  office 
as  he  would  fit  it  up;  the  original  ideas  he  would 
carry  out  in  equipment;  the  society  meetings  he 
would  attend;  the  clinics  he  would  give  and  see 
given;  the  operations  he  would  perform.  On  and 
still  on  he  went.  It  was  the  brief,  inevitable  reac- 
tion from  the  interminable  depression  of  the  past, 
the  intense  awakening  of  a  light-starved  plant 
thrown  unexpectedly  into  the  sun  glow  of  a  domi- 
nant optimism.  Of  a  sudden  he  felt  the  working 
of  a  creative  instinct  within  him,  the  throbbing  de- 
sire to  do.  The  blood  coursed  swiftly  through  his 
arteries,  tingled  to  his  finger  tips.  Instinctively, 
confidently  he  began  to  plan,  to  lay  out  a  campaign 
of  battle. 

"I'll  open  up  right  here,"  he  announced  suddenly, 
"here  where  I  began  before."  He  drew  a  long 
breath.  "It  might  be  easier  elsewhere,  but  I'll  fight 
it  out  in  the  enemy's  own  country." 


A  Flicker  on  the  Hearth  37 

"Yes,"  said  Mary  Temple,  "I  would  like  to  see 
you  win  here." 

"I'll  take  a  post-graduate  course  first,"  dreamed 
on  the  man.  "It  won't  take  but  a  few  months  and 
some  one  will  lend  me  the  money.  Then  I'll  come 
back.  I'll  forget  that  I  haven't  been  practising  all 
these  years,  forget  everything  but  the  future." 

"Yes,"  echoed  the  listener.  "I  would  forget 
everything  but  the  future  if  I  were  you." 

For  a  second  the  man  was  silent,  questioningly 
silent.  He  had  a  feeling  that  there  was  more  in 
that  low-voiced  corroboration  than  appeared.  But 
the  mood  of  the  confidante  was  too  strong  upon 
him  to  remain  silent  long,  the  temptation  of  a  sym- 
pathetic listener  too  seductive.  With  a  sudden  mo- 
tion of  passionate  abandon  he  leaned  far  forward 
toward  her  until,  had  he  stretched  out  his  hand, 
they  would  have  touched.  His  thin  face  lit  up  un- 
til it  was  almost  magnetic,  almost  as  it  had  been  of 
old. 

"I  know  that  any  one  else  would  think  me  a  fool 
to  prattle  about  myself  as  I'm  doing,"  he  began 
tensely,  "but  you'll  pardon  me  and  understand.  I 
can't  avoid  it,  Mary.  I'm  helpless.  I've  been 
silent  so  long,  been  without  a  human  being  I  could 
talk  to  for  so  long,  that  I  can't  resist  the  tempta- 
tion now.  I've  thought  and  thought  alone,  day 
and  night  and  night  and  day  until — until — "  He 
halted  suddenly.  His  eyes  met  hers ;  direct,  appeal- 


38  The  Quest  Eternal 

ing,  piteous  in  their  intensity.  "Tell  me  you  don't 
mind,  Mary,"  he  said,  "that  you  understand." 

"I  understand,  Andy  McLeod,"  said  the  woman 
simply.  "Tell  me." 

Involuntarily  the  man  settled  back.  His  eyes  left 
her  face,  looked  away,  beyond. 

"I  knew  you  would,"  he  repeated  monotonously. 
"It  was  the  one  thing  I  was  always  sure  of.  I  grew 
to  doubt  everything  else,  to  doubt  myself,  to  ques- 
tion God;  but  you — you — I  never  doubted  you, 
Mary.  I  knew  that  when  the  time  came,  when  I 
saw  you,  when  I  could  talk — as  I'm  talking  now, 
you'd  understand." 

"Yes."  The  woman  was  working  swiftly  and 
more  swiftly.  A  trace  of  colour  was  on  her  cheek 
likewise  now;  but  in  his  abstraction  the  man  did 
not  notice.  "But  you  were  speaking  of  what  you 
had  planned  for  the  future,"  she  suggested.  "Tell 
me." 

"That's  so,  I — wandered."  McLeod  had 
dropped  back  into  his  old  attitude,  his  fingers  again 
deep  amid  the  turf.  "It  seems  so  good  to  be  here 
with  you,  with  some  one  to  whom  I  can  say  things." 
As  suddenly  as  he  had  aroused  the  fire  had  left  him. 
His  rounded  shoulder  sagged  listlessly,  wearily. 
"Seems  as  though  there  never  was  such  green  grass 
as  this  before,"  he  digressed  absently,  "such  green 
trees,  such — oh,  it's  good,  good!" 

Shade  by  shade,  as  they  had  moved  more  swiftly, 


A  Flicker  on  the  Hearth  39 

the  woman's  hands  slowed,  until  finally  the  work 
was  abandoned.  Her  eyes  lifted  until  they  rested 
upon  the  man's  face,  held  there  unfalteringly. 

"Your  old  partner,  Sidney  Stone,  is  here  now,  has 
been  back  four  years.  Did  you  know  that?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

McLeod  was  not  looking  at  her,  apparently  did 
not  hear. 

The  woman  waited  a  minute,  two.  Her  eyes  did 
not  change  nor  did  she  move  by  so  much  as  a 
muscle. 

"Sidney  Stone  is  back.  Have  you  seen  him?"  she 
repeated. 

This  time  the  man  aroused,  his  wandering  look 
returned. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  apologised. 

For  the  third  time  Mary  Temple  repeated  the 
query;  without  a  trace  of  annoyance,  steadily, 
directly. 

Responsive,  just  for  a  second,  the  old  fire  re- 
turned to  the  man's  eyes.  Just  for  an  instant  the 
shoulders  squared;  then  as  suddenly  it  died  and 
his  eyes  dropped. 

"Yes,  I  knew  he  was  back.  I  have  seen  him,"  he 
said. 

"You  have  seen  him,  you  say?" 

"Yes — the  first  night." 

"And  he's  still  here?" 

"Yes,"  again. 


40  The  Quest  Eternal 

One  of  the  hands  in  the  woman's  lap  tightened, 
closed  cruelly  upon  the  needle  in  her  work;  but  she 
did  not  notice. 

"You  mean  that  you're  going  to  permit  him  to 
remain  here,  Andy  McLeod?" 

The  man  did  not  answer  nor  did  he  look  up. 

"Tell  me  please.     I  have  the  right  to  know." 

"I  told  him  he  could  stay." 

Silence  fell,  a  tense  silence,  a  terrible  silence  to  the 
man.  He  did  not  glance  up,  for  long  he  did  not 
stir;  yet  as  certainly  as  though  he  had  done  so  he 
knew  his  companion  was  still  looking  at  him, 
studying  him,  reading  as  from  an  open  book  the 
depth  of  his  humiliation,  the  extent  of  his  fall. 
She  gave  no  hint  of  the  fact,  she  uttered  no  sound; 
yet  he  knew.  The  thing  was  taking  place,  was 
coming  to  pass.  He,  Andrew  McLeod,  was  being 
judged  and  found  wanting.  He,  Andrew  Mc- 
Leod, who  had  spoken  so  bravely  a  few  minutes 
before,  was  being  discovered  for  the  coward  he 
was.  The  suggestion,  the  knowledge  was  torture; 
yet  he  was  helpless.  For  a  moment  he  tried  to 
brave  it  out,  to  affect  unconsciousness,  indifference ; 
but  it  was  useless.  Telltale,  his  face  shaded  scarlet, 
grew  burning  hot.  He  bit  at  his  lips  to  keep  them 
from  trembling.  The  fingers  on  his  knees  tightened 
until  they  grew  white.  Second  by  second,  struggle 
against  it  as  he  might,  he  felt  his  self-command 
slipping  from  him.  He  wanted  to  glance  up, 


A  Flicker  on  the  Hearth          41 

wanted  to  say  something  in  self-defence,  but  he 
could  not.  And  still  the  silence  lasted,  still 

"Mary!"  The  end  of  endurance  had  come,  the 
crushing  straw  had  fallen.  "Mary,  don't!  In 
pity  don't!" 

A  pause  as  of  one  awakening,  then:  "Don't  what, 
please?" 

"Look  at  me  that  way.    I  can't  bear  it." 

A  moment  again  there  was  silence,  inaction;  then 
of  a  sudden,  without  explanation  or  apology,  Mary 
Temple  arose. 

"Come,  please,"  she  said;  and  silently,  without  a 
backward  glance,  as  when  she  had  emerged,  she  led 
the  way  within  the  house. 


CHAPTER  III 

INSTINCT,  THE    UNCONQUERABLE 

STRAIGHT  through  the  kitchen  to  the  little  front 
room  where  they  had  first  sat  Mary  Temple  led  the 
way,  and  as  before,  with  the  telltale  shuffle,  the 
man  followed.  Beside  her  own  chair  the  woman 
sat  down  and  with  a  gesture  indicated  her  com- 
panion's place  opposite.  Once  seated  she  did  not 
move  again.  Another  woman  would  have  found 
inactivity  intolerable,  impossible,  could  no  more 
have  sat  there  motionless  as  she  sat  than  she  could 
have  stopped  the  beating  of  her  own  heart;  but 
Mary  Temple  was  not  another  but  herself.  For 
another  long  space  she  remained  so,  gazing  with 
unseeing  eyes  out  of  the  window.  Unconsciously 
she  had  rolled  her  work  into  a  tight  little  ball. 
Out  of  doors  the  needle  had  pricked  her  viciously 
and  minute  by  minute  a  spot,  glaring  red  against 
the  white  of  the  muslin,  was  spreading  from  the 
wound ;  but  of  it  likewise  she  was  unconscious.  Far 
and  away  beyond  trivial  circumstance,  trivial  action, 
was  Mary  Temple  now.  As  never  before  the  man, 
her  companion,  was  at  last  to  see  her  as  she  truly 
was.  Looking  at  that  red  blot  gathering  bit  by  bit 
he  realised  the  fact  to  finality.  Of  a  sudden  the 


Instinct,  the  Unconquerable          43 

veneer  of  conventional  forbearance,  conventional 
impassivity,  which  experience  like  a  mask  had 
formed  about  her  was  down.  Back  of  it  the  real 
Mary  Temple,  vital,  natural,  dominantly  earnest, 
stood  revealed.  It  was  this  Mary  Temple  who  sat 
there,  so  motionless,  gazing  out  the  tiny  paned  win- 
dow into  the  nothingness  beyond.  It  was  this  same 
Mary  Temple  who  at  last,  still  without  a  motion, 
began  speaking. 

"Andy  McLeod,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
you  out  there,  I  don't  wish  to  hurt  you  now ;  but  the 
time  has  come  for  us  to  have  an  understanding,  to 
find  out  things  as  they  are  and  meet  them  frankly." 
Deliberately,  steadily  she  turned  until  they  were 
facing,  held  him  so.  "First  of  all  I  have  a  question 
to  ask  you;  not  unkindly  nor  in  criticism,  but  be- 
cause it  is  my  right.  You  tell  me  that  with  your 
memory  of  the  past,  in  spite  of  the  part  that  Sidney 
Stone  played  therein,  you  have  told  him  he  could 
stay  here ;  in  other  words,  you  have  pardoned  him. 
Again  you  tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  fight  for  a 
place  which  you  have  lost;  fight  until  you  win, 
fight  for  a  lifetime  if  necessary.  Those  two  state- 
ments do  not  conform.  I  don't  need  to  tell  you 
this.  You  know  it  yourself.  I  ask  you  now  to 
tell  me  which  you  meant.  Don't  try  to  make  them 
agree.  You  can't  do  so.  Don't  attempt  to 
delude  yourself  or  me.  Tell  me,  please,  which  is 
true." 


44  The  Quest   Eternal 

She  was  silent,  and  in  his  place  the  man  sat  staring 
her  back.  In  swiftly  changing  cycle  the  previous 
mood,  the  mood  of  justification  had  passed.  The 
moment  was  too  big  for  dissimulation,  for  artifice. 
Yet  for  some  reason  he  did  not  answer.  Not  that 
he  was  afraid  to  answer.  He  was  no  longer  afraid 
nor  ashamed;  but  as  he  sat  there  looking  at  her, 
as  the  moments  flew,  another  incentive,  another 
thought,  bigger  than  all  else,  big  enough  to  em- 
brace the  universe,  had  forced  all  others  aside. 
This  it  was  that  held  him  now  in  its  grip.  This  it 
was  that  made  him  forget. 

Just  perceptibly  at  last  his  companion  stirred. 
She  moistened  her  lips.  "I'm  waiting;  tell  me, 
please,"  she  repeated. 

"Mary  Temple,"  digressed  the  man  abruptly,  "I 
love  you." 

Swift  as  thought  a  trace  of  flame  spran~  to  the 
woman's  face,  but  otherwise  she  gave  no  s:gn  that 
she  had  heard. 

"I'm  still  waiting,"  she  repeated  for  t* ~ r-  second 
time. 

"I  tell  you  I  love  you,"  reiterated  the  w-  Densely; 
"I,  a  gaol  bird;  I,  Andrew  McLeo  '  n  orn-out 
convict,  who  haven't  a  thing  on  Cod's  errth  to 
recommend  me  or  to  offer  you,  I  who — 

"Don't — yet."  Dominant,  insistent  the  woman 
cut  him  short.  She  leaned  toward  him  compel- 
lingly.  "I  tell  you  I  must  know  things  as  they  are, 


Instinct,  the  Unconquerable         4$ 

you  must  tell  me.  Don't  evade  my  question.  An- 
swer me." 

A  moment  and  a  moment  only  the  man  met  her 
look;  then  his  eyes  dropped. 

"You're  right,  Mary,  in  saying  an  answer  is  your 
due,"  he  admitted  dully.  "I  didn't  mean  to  evade 
it,  though  I — forgot  that  you  had  asked  the  ques- 
tion." Involuntarily,  impotently,  one  work-hard- 
ened hand  caressed  its  mate;  the  fingers  lingering 
absently  upon  the  callous  spots  in  the  palm.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  pretend  that  I'm  something  that  I'm 
not  either,  Mary.  When  I  told  you  of  what  I  was 
going  to  do,  when  I  spoke  of — fighting,  I  thought 
I  meant  it;  but  nevertheless  I  realise  now  that  I 
was  only  dreaming.  I'll  never  fight  again,  Mary, 
never  if  I  were  to  live  a  century.  The  fight  is  all 
out  of  me.  They  wore  it  out  of  me  up  there  on 
the  hill,  bit  by  bit.  It  took  a  long  time,  but  they 
won  at  last.  There's  no  use  pretending  otherwise, 
for  it's  so,  and  I  know  it's  so."  The  voice  halted. 
The  head  with  its  sprinkling  of  grey  bent  lower 
and  lower.  "Whatever  I  was  once,  Mary,  the 
fact  remains  that  now  I  am  beaten." 

Not  in  a  muscle  did  the  woman  stir  nor  did  she 
utter  a  sound.  Just  for  a  second  the  man's  gaze 
lifted,  saw  her  so;  then  his  eyes  dropped  again  as 
before. 

"I  know  what  you  think,  what  you  can't  help 
thinking,  Mary,"  he  drifted  on.  "You  despise  me. 


46  The  Quest  Eternal 

I  would  have  done  the  same  myself  once,  for  I 
couldn't  have  understood."  The  hands  halted  in 
their  aimless  movement,  locked  tight.  "No  one 
who  has  not  one's  self  been  in — Hell  can  wholly 
understand.  It  isn't  the  physical  labour,  although 
that  is  hard  enough,  which  breaks  us,  nor  the  cheap 
food,  nor  the  monotony;  but  the  eternal  dogging 
subserviency.  Every  month  of  the  year,  every 
week  of  the  month,  every  day  of  the  week,  every 
hour  of  the  day,  every  minute  of  the  hour,  every 
second  of  the  minute  we're  under  surveillance,  un- 
der command.  It  dogs  our  every  action  by  day,  it 
dominates  every  dream  by  night.  It  eats  into  us 
consciously,  against  our  wills,  in  spite  of  us.  In 
time  its  influence  becomes  a  part  of  us;  as  involun- 
tary as  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts.  We  know 
it  is  coming  to  pass  and  still  we  can't  help  it.  Like 
slow  paralysis  we're  helpless  against  it.  It's  this 
that  breaks  us,  Mary,  this  unending  obedience  to 
an  irresistible  dominating  force.  At  first  we  rebel; 
but  eventually  we  lose  the  power  of  rebellion.  We 
become  like  water:  we  merely  flow  under  pressure. 
It's  this  which  no  one  who  has  not  been  there  can 
understand;  but  it's  the  end  and  inevitable.  It's 
what  happened  to  me.  Bit  by  bit,  from  before 
our  very  eyes,  it  steals  our  nerve.  Then  at  last  it's 
satisfied  and  lets  us  go;  for  then  at  last  we  are 
beaten." 
Silence  fell  again,  but  not  for  long.  Of  a  sudden 


Instinct,  the  Unconquerable         47 

the  man  looked  up,  not  fearfully  as  before  but  de- 
liberately and  of  choice. 

"Do  you  understand  why  it  is  that  I  myself  will 
never  fight  again?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "I  understand." 

The  man  looked  at  her  direct,  cruelly  direct. 

"Nevertheless  you  despise  me." 

The  woman  did  not  answer. 

"Tell  me,  please,  Mary,"  insisted  the  other.  "I 
too  wish  to  know  the  worst.  Tell  me,  do  you 
despise  me?" 

"No."  There  was  no  hesitation  this  time,  no  dis- 
simulation. "It's  not  that.  I — God  have  mercy 
on  us  both,  Andy  McLeod — I  only  pity  you  1" 

"Only  pity,  Mary?"  Swift  as  thought  the  man 
leaned  forward,  his  breath  came  quickly.  "Don't 
you  feel  more  than  pity,  nothing  more?" 

A  second  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  a 
second  while  each  read  the  other's  very  soul;  then 
as  before  the  woman  looked  away,  out  the  window 
with  the  tiny  panes. 

"I  can't  seem  to  misunderstand,  Andy,"  she  said 
gently.  "I  know  only  too  well  what  you  mean  and 
I  wish  I  could  answer  you  differently;  but  it's 
better  for  us  both  to  know  the  truth.  I'm 
afraid  there  is  only  pity  in  what  I  feel  for  you, 
Andy  man." 

"But  I — I  love  you,  Mary,"  said  the  other  desper- 
ately. "You're  all  I've  got  left  in  the  world,  all, 


48  The  Quest  Eternal 

all  I  Doesn't  that  mean  something  to  you?  Tell 
me,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes.     It  means  a  great  deal." 

"And  pity  will  grow  into  something  closer.  I 
know  it.  I'll  make  it  do  so.  I — don't  you  believe 
me,  Mary?" 

"I  don't  know,  Andy.  I  can't  lie  to  you  or  to  my- 
self. I — don't  know." 

A  moment  longer  the  man  sat  so,  staring  at  her, 
groping  for  words,  for  inspiration;  then  wearily, 
almost  listlessly,  he  leaned  back  in  his  place. 

"I  won't  bother  you  much  more,  Mary,"  he  said 
dully.  "I've  made  you  trouble  enough,  too  much, 
already."  Absently,  as  before,  his  hands  began 
their  nervous,  caressing  movement.  "Circumstances 
have  been  against  us  both.  In  beating  me  they 
drew  you  down  too,  because — because  we  stood 
together  once.  It's  unjust,  horribly  unjust,  but  it's 
life  and  we  can't  help  it  now."  Of  a  sudden  his 
hands  ceased  their  erratic  motion.  Like  the  woman 
herself  he  looked  away,  away  far  into  the  future, 
into  the  unknown.  His  voice  grew  fuller,  almost 
vibrant.  "There's  just  one  thing  though  that  I 
must  tell  you ;  for  it's  the  only  hope,  the  only  am- 
bition they  didn't  succeed  in  beating  out  of  me  up 
there  in — Hell.  It's  this,  Mary.  Our  life  that  we 
live  here  ourselves  isn't  the  only  part  that  counts. 
The  life  that  any  one  person  lives  one's  self  isn't 
all  that  counts.  It's  merely  a  link  in  a  long  chain. 


Instinct,  the  Unconquerable         49 

The  motive  that  prompted  my  desire  to  do  some- 
thing in  the  world,  that  made  me  fight  so  long  as  I 
could,  will  go  on  and  on — no  one  can  tell  how  far. 
Temporarily  it  is  dormant,  passive;  because  I  am 
beaten,  cannot  carry  it  farther.  But  it  won't  end 
with  me.  It  shan't.  This  was  the  one  ray  of  light 
they  left  me  up  there,  the  one  ambition  they  couldn't 
throttle."  Abruptly  his  eyes  left  the  unknown, 
fastened  themselves  upon  his  companion's  face ;  not 
diffidently  or  with  shame,  but  with  an  intensity  that 
was  compelling,  a  confidence  that  would  not  be  de- 
nied or  shaken.  "It  is  this  which  I  say  I  must  tell 
you,  Mary  Temple,"  he  said  tensely,  "because  it 
concerns  not  only  me  but  us  both.  We  are  no  longer 
children;  but  man  and  woman  who  know  life  and 
have  sounded  our  innermost  souls.  You  and  I  have 
lost  in  the  game:  I  directly,  you  through  me. 
Whether  or  no  I  was  at  fault  it  is  useless  to  argue 
now.  Things  are  so  and  we  are  facing  them.  But 
the  name  of  McLeod  shall  mean  something  yet. 
It  is  the  best  that  nature  offers  us,  Mary,  the  best 
when  all  is  said  that  could  be  offered;  for — "  he 
looked  her  deep,  the  words  came  slowly,  cumula- 
tively, insistent, — "for  I  love  you,  Mary  Temple, 
and  you,  if  you  do  not  care  so  much  for  me  in  re- 
turn, are  nevertheless  a  woman!"  A  moment  he 
halted  but  his  eyes  did  not  drop.  "You  asked  me 
for  the  truth  and  I  have  spoken.  Don't  you  believe 
me  at  last,  Mary?" 


$o  The  Quest  Eternal 

The  woman  was  still  looking,  looking  out  the 
window  with  the  tiny  panes.  Even  yet  she  did  not 
stir;  but  her  face  had  softened  miraculously  in  those 
last  moments,  and  despite  her  will  her  eyes  glistened 
brightly. 

"Yes,  Andy,"  she  said,  "I  believe  now." 

"And — "  of  a  sudden  the  man's  tongue  was  halt- 
ing and  uncertain — "you  understand  all  that  my 
solution  means,  you  understand — everything?" 

At  last  the  woman's  guard  was  down.  Like  the 
man  himself,  words,  adequate  words,  would  not 
come. 

"Yes,  Andy,"  she  repeated,  "I  understand — every- 
thing. It  was,  is,  the  solution  of  the  future  I  had 
anticipated — my  own  as  well  as  yours.  I  was  only 

afraid  that  you,  that  you — oh,  Andy!  Andy!" 
***** 

It  was  a  prosaic  wedding — a  pitifully  prosaic 
wedding.  It  was  unannounced.  It  passed  without 
comment  in  a  single  local  paper.  When,  on  the 
second  morning  following,  the  clerk  of  courts  at 
the  county  building  came  to  begin  his  work  for  the 
day  he  found  two  people  waiting  for  him  in  the 
corridor.  It  was  a  hot  morning  and  the  official  was 
late.  As  he  unlocked  the  door  he  apologised  for  his 
tardiness  perfunctorily;  but  neither  of  his  visitors 
seemed  to  be  listening,  to  be  aware  that  he  had 
spoken.  Within  the  office,  he  tossed  the  coat  that  he 
had  been  carrying  into  a  convenient  chair  and  lit 


Instinct,  the  Unconquerable          51 

a  cigar.  He  was  human  and  after  his  former  ex- 
perience did  not  ask  permission  to  do  either.  Once 
at  his  desk  he  looked  up  inquiring]^;  then  without 
a  word  drew  a  blank  license  from  a  pigeonhole  and 
dipped  his  pen. 

"I'll  take  the  information  if  you  please,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"Andrew  McLeod  is  my  name,"  said  the  man  in 
waiting,  repressedly. 

"Age?" 

"Thirty-nine." 

The  writer  made  the  entry,  paused  meaningly. 

"Mary  Temple,"  responded  the  woman  simply. 
"Thirty-six." 

The  pen  scratched  industriously  over  the  sheet  and 
ended  with  a  flourish.  A  dollar  changed  owner- 
ship. 

"I  suppose  we  will  need  witnesses,"  commented 
the  prospective  groom  as  he  fumbled  the  paper  in 
his  hands. 

"You're  going  to  be  married  here,  are  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I'll  see  if  the  judge  is  in." 

A  trail  of  smoke  indicated  the  way  as  the  clerk 
crossed  the  corridor  and,  without  form  of  knock- 
ing, entered  at  a  door  lettered  "County  Judge." 
Docile,  in  the  silence  which  had  accompanied  their 
every  movement,  the  man  and  the  woman  followed, 
stood  face  to  face  before  the  magistrate. 


52  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Want  to  be  married,  eh?"  comprehended  the  lat- 
ter professionally  ere  a  word  of  explanation  had 
been  spoken.  Like  the  clerk,  he  was  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves and  his  black  string  tie  was  awry.  "Swen- 
son,  come  here  a  minute,"  he  digressed  suddenly 
to  some  one  out  in  the  corridor  beyond. 

The  man  addressed,  a  big-muscled  Swede  carry- 
ing a  broom  and  a  pail  of  dampened  sawdust,  put 
down  the  implements  of  his  calling  and  responded 
obediently.  He  had  participated  on  similar  occa- 
sions before  and  entered  familiarly,  polishing  his 
hands  on  a  red  bandanna  methodically  in  prepara- 
tion of  future  need. 

The  judge  was  an  old  man,  old  even  for  his  place. 
He  was  likewise  curious.  Adjusting  his  horn- 
rimmed glasses  to  his  nose  he  inspected  the  appli- 
cants individually,  critically;  but  without  a  trace 
of  recognition. 

"All  ready,"  he  announced  at  length.  "Step  up 
to  the  desk,  please." 

The  bride  and  the  groom  complied,  stood  side  by 
side.  The  janitor  thrust  the  bandanna  back  into 
his  pocket  and  folded  his  arms  expectantly.  The 
clerk  moved  over  to  the  window  and  stood  smoking 
meditatively.  Silence  fell. 

From  memory,  an  oft-refreshed  memory,  each 
sentence  exploding  individually  after  a  mannerism 
all  his  own,  the  magistrate  read  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, barely  pausing  for  the  responses,  his  eye- 


Instinct,  the  L  nconquerable          53 

glasses,  which  had  shaken  free  from  his  nose  at  the 
first  period,  dangling  meantime  from  their  string 
before  him.  At  the  close  he  sat  down  and  remained 
tapping  the  tips  of  his  four  fingers  against  their 
mates  while  the  two  witnesses  affixed  their  signa- 
tures and  departed.  Then,  elaborately  unconscious 
of  the  fee  which  the  groom  had  laid  on  the  desk 
before  him,  he  returned  the  pince-nez  to  his  nose 
and  deferentially  arose. 

"I  would  say,  Mr. "  he  consulted  the  license 

before  him — "McLeod,  that  I  congratulate  you 
heartily;  and  that  I  wish  you,  Mrs.  McLeod,  you 
both  in  fact,  all  possible  happiness."  He  bowed 
elaborately  and  held  the  door  for  them  to  pass.  "I 
— trust  I  may  see  you  both  often  in  future." 

As  when  the  clerk  had  offered  an  apology  the  pair 
seemed  unconscious  that  they  were  being  addressed, 
they  made  no  rejoinder,  and  the  door  closed  behind 
them. 

Going  through  the  corridor  on  their  return  it  was 
the  same.  Absently,  repressedly  the  woman  led 
the  way;  and  in  total  silence,  save  for  his  shuffling 
feet,  the  man  followed.  In  passing  the  janitor  the 
latter  touched  his  cap  to  them  deferentially,  but 
neither  noticed;  and,  halting  in  his  work,  the  Swede 
leaned  on  his  broom  and  watched  them  curiously 
until  they  disappeared  down  the  winding  marble 
stairway. 

Not  until  it  was  all  over,  until  they  stood  again 


54  The  Quest  Eternal 

upon  the  sidewalk  outside  the  exit,  until  the  hot 
morning  sun  met  them  again  face  to  face  did  the 
woman  weaken,  did  reality  return;  then  of  a  sudden 
she  halted  and  abruptly  looked  away.  Despite  her 
will,  despite  all  effort  at  repression,  two  great  tears 
coursed  down  her  cheeks  and  dropped  spattering 
on  the  cement  before  her. 

McLeod  shuffled  on  his  feet  miserably,  impotently. 

"Mary,"  he  pleaded,  "what  is  it  that's  wrong? 
Tell  me." 

Abruptly  as  she  had  halted,  the  woman  started  on. 
She  did  not  deign  to  wipe  her  eyes,  she  offered  no 
explanation. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  do  so,  Andy  man,"  she  apolo- 
gised gently.  "I  couldn't  help  it."  With  an  effort 
that  her  companion  did  not  realise  she  smiled. 
"Forgive  me  this  time,  please.  It  won't  happen 
again,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LIGHT  IN  THE  DISTANCE 

"You  called  to  see  me  about  that  exchange  I  ad- 
vertised." Washburn,  the  real  estate  man — realty 
agent  he  styled  himself — leaned  back  in  his  desk 
chair  and  glanced  perfunctorily  at  the  morning 
sheet  his  visitors  had  handed  him  by  way  of  intro* 
duction.  He  was  a  dapper  young  man  with  a 
faintly  receding  chin,  carefully  shaved,  and  a  but- 
terfly tie.  He  adjusted  the  latter  unnecessarily 
with  a  well-kept  hand.  "You  did  well  to  answer 
promptly.  That  proposition  only  came  to  me 
yesterday,  and  farm  lands  nowadays  are  in  great 
demand."  He  tossed  the  paper  back  on  his  desk 
and  looked  from  one  of  his  visitors  to  the  other 
deliberately.  His  eyes  halted  at  last  on  the  man. 
"To  save  time,  just  what  would  you  like  to  know 
about  it?"  he  suggested. 

"All  that  you  know,  please,"  answered  a  voice,  a 
woman's  voice. 

Washburn  looked  politely  surprised. 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  the  farm  is  owned  by  a  man 
of  the  name  of  Olson,  Martin  Olson."  He  paused 
to  introduce  a  time-honoured  witticism.  "I  gather 
he's  a  Scandinavian.  It's  about  one  hundred  and 


56  The  Quest  Eternal 

fifty  miles  northwest  of  here,  close  to  the  river — the 
Missouri  I  mean,  of  course.  The  railway  station 
nearest  it  is  twenty-eight  miles  south."  Washburn 
selected  a  letter  from  a  pigeonhole  and  folded  it 
flat  on  his  knee.  "Olson  writes  that  his  son  Hans 
and  his  daughter  Alma  must  go  to  school.  He 
doesn't  say  it  that  way  exactly,  but  that's  what  he 
means.  The  farm  is  a  quarter  section  free  of  incum- 
brance.  It's  improved  and  has  all  implements  neces- 
sary for  cultivation.  He  has  some  stock.  Among  the 
latter  he  says  are  five  jersey  red  pigs,  imported  from 
Iowa,  and  a  shorthorn  bull  calf  a  year  old.  He  pro- 
poses to  trade  the  place  as  it  stands  for  a  house  and 
lot  here  in  town  with  a  piazza  and  space  for  a  gar- 
den. He  says  he's  just  threshed  his  wheat  and  it 
went  twenty-one  bushels  to  the  acre."  Washburn 
closed  the  sheet  carefully  and  tossed  it  among  the  lit- 
ter on  his  desk.  "That's  all  I  know,"  he  completed, 
"except  that  in  conclusion  he  says  he's  in  a  'hurry 
up'  to  make  the  change  before  school  opens." 

The  listening  man  looked  up  for  the  first  time. 

"You've  seen  the  place  yourself,  have  you,  Mr. 
Washburn?"  he  asked. 

"No,  but  I  know  the  country.  It's  new  and  wild 
now,  of  course,  and  you'll  find  neighbours  a  bit 
scarce;  but  it's  all  right." 

The  woman  was  not  listening. 

"My  house  has  a  big  porch  and  the  lot  runs  clear 
back  to  the  alley,"  she  remarked. 


The  Light  in  the  Distance          57 

Washburn  began  to  exhibit  decided  interest. 

"Where  is  the  place,  if  I  may  ask?"  he  inquired 
curtly. 

For  answer  the  woman  glanced  at  the  man,  her 
companion,  and  without  a  word  he  drew  an  abstract 
from  his  pocket  and  presented  it  for  inspection. 

Washburn  ran  over  the  sheets  with  a  practised 
eye  and  thereafter  sat  staring  up  at  the  ceiling  med- 
itatively. McLeod  glanced  at  him  once  surrepti- 
tiously, then  his  gaze  dropped  as  before,  to  his  feet. 
The  woman  merely  remained  as  before,  her  hands 
passive  in  her  lap,  waiting. 

"I've  been  trying  to  place  the  property,"  com- 
mented the  agent  at  last.  "I  recall  it  now.  There 
are  some  elms  in  the  front  yard  and  a  clump  of  hard 
maples  in  the  rear."  He  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  his  visitors.  "It's  my  business  to  remem- 
ber all  these  things,  you  know."  Again  his  eyes 
halted  on  the  woman  inquiringly.  r'The  house  is  a 
bit  old-fashioned  as  I  remember." 

"Yes.  When  my  father  built  it  was  one  of  the 
first  in  the  city."  The  folded  hands  changed  posi- 
tion absently.  "They  were  rather  proud  of  it  here 
in  those  days." 

The  agent's  eyes  returned  to  the  ceiling.  He 
scowled  thoughtfully.  Another  period  of  silence, 
wherein  McLeod  shifted  restlessly,  passed.  Then 
Washburn  straightened  decisively. 

"Do  you  wish  to  make  the  exchange?"  he  asked 
directly. 


58  The  Quest  Eternal 

The  woman  did  not  hesitate. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

McLeod  glanced  up  uncertainly.  The  agent 
noticed  that  his  great  hands  were  trembling. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  think  it  over  a  little  be- 
fore we  decide,  Mary?"  he  hesitated. 

Washburn  stiffened. 

"I  personally  guarantee  that  the  facts  are  as  I 
stated,  if  you  are  in  doubt  on  that  score,"  he  con- 
tinued shortly. 

Again  the  woman  seemed  unconscious  that  either 
had  spoken. 

"I'd  prefer,  if  you  can,  that  you'd  make  the — 
deal  at  once,  to-day."  She  smiled — the  smile  of 
one  who  does  so  in  self-defence.  "I've  lived  in 
that  house  for  a  long  time  and  one  has  memories. 
I'd  rather  it  was  all  over  with."  She  arose  as  she 
spoke.  "Would  you  mind  letting  me  know  when 
you  have  the  papers  all  ready?" 

For  once  the  agent  forgot  himself,  became  almost 
human. 

"You've  considered  what  it  means  to  go  away  out 
there,  away  from — every  one,  Mrs.  McLeod?" 

A  moment  there  was  silence,  an  awkward  silence ; 
then  the  smile  was  repeated. 

"Yes,  I — we,  I  mean — have  considered — every- 
thing," she  said.  At  the  door  she  turned.  The 
smile  repeated  itself.  "You  see  I'm  in  training  al- 
ready," she  added.  "I'm  fully  as  far,  if  not  farther, 


The  Light  in  the  Distance          59 

than  you  say  we  are  going  from  a  neighbour  as  it 
is."  A  second  longer  the  look  held,  steady,  tolerant, 
wholly  unaffected;  then  ere  the  man  could  answer, 
ere  the  tragedy  that  lurked  beneath  the  smile 
peeped  forth,  she  was  gone. 


It  was  the  last  night  ere  the  shifting,  the  final 
space  of  the  old  life.  Save  the  few  imperative 
necessities,  the  household  goods  were  packed  and 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  drayman  in  the  early 
morning.  Semi-darkness,  kindly  and  intimate, 
wrapped  in  the  earth,  obscured  the  unsightly  details 
of  the  dismantled  house,  softened,  idealised  every- 
thing. 

On  the  dimly  lighted  front  porch  of  the  old 
Temple  house,  the  piazza  which  Scandinavian  Mar- 
tin Olson  coveted,  now  his  own,  the  work  and  bustle 
of  the  day  over,  sat  the  man  and  the  woman. 
Though  they  had  been  married  less  than  a  week, 
though  to  all  intent  they  were  as  free  from  outside 
interference  as  if  in  the  heart  of  a  deserted  city, 
they  were  well  apart;  as  far  separate  as  two  merely 
good  friends  would  sit.  Moreover,  for  long, 
neither  thought  of  nor  cared  how  long,  no  word 
had  been  spoken.  Minute  by  minute  as  they  sat 
there  the  present  had  drifted  into  the  past;  but  of 
the  present  likewise  neither  thought  nor  cared. 
Verily  in  a  world  apart  from  the  thousands  of  other 


60  The  Quest  Eternal 

humans  who  surrounded  them  within  the  radius  of 
a  mile,  were  these  two  people.  A  past  they  had,  a 
past  they  could  not  escape,  and  a  future;  but  a 
present,  the  present  in  which  the  other  multitude 
lived,  was  absent  from  their  scheme  of  things.  And, 
strange  to  say,  of  this  lack  they  were  unconscious. 
Like  children  before  a  cherished  holiday,  the  future, 
big  with  promise,  monopolised  their  horizon, 
bounded  them  in.  Like  children,  to  it  first,  when 
finally  they  spoke,  they  referred. 

"We're  going  to  be  very  happy  out  there  after  a 
bit,"  began  the  man  absently.  He  was  not  looking 
at  his  companion  but  out,  out  over  the  heart  of  the 
city,  where  the  electric  lights  were  reflected  against 
the  sky.  "Here  we'd  never  forget  the  past,  never 
get  away  from  it;  but  there,  where  we'll  never  see 
a  face  we've  ever  seen  before,  there's  a  chance  that 
we  may  in  time  forget — almost." 

"Yes,"  echoed  the  woman.  "I  think  in  time  we 
may  forget — almost." 

The  man  passed  his  stiffened  hand  over  his  shaven 
chin  absently.  His  eyes  still  clung  to  that  bright 
spot  on  the  sky  as  though  there  were  a  fascination  in 
its  location. 

"Time  moves  very  swiftly  anywhere  in  this 
world,"  he  voiced  slowly,  "and  it'll  move  even 
more  rapidly  out  there."  His  hands  went  palm  to 
palm.  His  fingers  locked.  UA  generation  seems  a 
long  time  when  we  consider  it  in  advance ;  but  when 


The  Light  in  the  Distance          61 

it's  past  and  we're  back  here  it'll  be  like  yesterday, 
we'll  wonder  where  it's  gone." 

While  he  was  speaking,  on  the  corner  of  the  block 
adjoining,  an  arclight  had  of  a  sudden  sputtered 
into  being.  Simultaneously,  out  of  the  shadow,  the 
figures,  the  faces,  of  the  two  humans  there  on  the 
wide  old-fashioned  porch  came  forth,  stood  re- 
vealed each  to  the  other. 

"Yes,"  echoed  the  woman  for  the  second  time, 
"as  I  look  back  the  past  generation,  back  to  the 
time  when  we  were  both  young,  I  wonder,  almost, 
where  the  time  has  gone." 

In  the  new  glow  the  reflection  on  the  distant  sky 
had  vanished  and  the  man's  gaze  shifted — to  his 
companion's  face.  Abruptly,  unconsciously,  his 
thoughts  altered  likewise;  retreated  until  they 
halted  far  back  amid  the  past. 

"Do  you  remember  the  first  time  we  ever  sat  here 
together,  you  and  I,  Mary?"  he  asked  intimately. 
"You  were  just  home  from  college,  where  I'd — 
found  you,  and  I'd  called  here  to  see  you  and  to 
meet  your  father." 

"Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "I  remember." 

"It  was  my  second  year  at  the  university,  your 
first,"  reminisced  the  man,  "and  we  were  both  bub- 
bling with  our  plans  that  night.  You  recall  that 
too,  Mary?" 

"Yes,"  again  monotonously.  "Father  sat  up  with 
us  listening  to  all  we  had  to  say,  until  midnight  or 


62  The  Quest   Eternal 

later."  She  paused.  Her  voice  lowered  uncon- 
sciously. "He  expected  everything  of  me,  of  us 
both,  in  those  days.  He'd  sacrificed  more  than  I 
realised  then  to  send  me  away." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  hurried  the  man  preventingly.  "I 
learned  too,  afterward." 

But  if  the  woman  noticed  she  did  not  understand. 

"He'd  been  a  worker  with  his  hands  all  his  life 
and  his  father  before  him,"  she  wandered  on.  "He 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  the  under  dog.  He'd  never 
known  anything  else.  But  when  mother  died,  out 
there  on  the  farm,  he  made  up  his  mind  that  with 
me  it  should  be  different.  That's  ,vhy  he  came  here 
and  built  this  house — so  I'd  have  a  chance.  That's 
why  he  sent  me  away  to  the  university — so  Fd 
have  a  better  chance.  Somehow  I  never  thought  of 
the  reason  then,  took  everything  for  granted;  but 
meanwhile  he  was  back  here  working  and  scrimp- 
ing alone  and — and — "  The  narrative  halted. 
The  voice  that  had  been  speaking  swifter  and  more 
swiftly  became  again  slow  and  even,  too  even.  "And 
it  was  all  such  a  useless  sacrifice,  such  a  pathetically 
useless  sacrifice." 

"No,  not  useless,"  said  the  man  quickly.  "You 
forget." 

No  answer. 

"I  had  a  mother  who  worked  as  hard  for  me  as 
your  father  did  for  you,"  hurried  the  speaker, 
"harder — for  a  man  can  work  better  alone  than  a 


The  Light  in  the  Distance          63 

woman,  and  she  wore  out  quicker;  long  before  I 
even  knew  you.  But  her  life  wasn't  wasted,  Mary; 
you  and  I  both  came  from  the  bottom  and  we've 
gone  back  to  the  place  from  which  we  came;  but 
nevertheless  there's  nothing  been  wasted."  He 
looked  at  his  companion  intently,  fixedly.  The 
blaze  of  the  fanatic,  of  the  human  with  one  super- 
lative unconquerable  conviction,  crept  into  his  face, 
made  it  fairly  glow.  "If  I  believed  that  my 
mother's  life,  your  father's,  our  own,  had  all,  as 
you  say,  been  useless  I'd  curse  God  and  die;  but  I 
can't  believe  it.  I  won't  yet.  It  would  be  unthink- 
able, monstrous.  It's  against  all  the  laws  of  na- 
ture." His  hand  went  mechanically  to  his  neck- 
band, lingered  there  as  though  he  were  choking. 
"Because  a  river  has  been  dammed  up  doesn't  mean 
that  it  can  never  flow  again.  Because  electric 
energy  is  locked  in  a  storage  battery  doesn't  mean 
that  it  will  always  be  latent.  The  water's  there 
and  the  power's  there.  You  can't  destroy  them. 
Some  time  that  water  will  flow  again  and  some 
time  that  electricity  will  move  things."  He  halted 
for  breath.  He  had  forgotten  himself  and  in  so 
doing  had  become  fairly  eloquent.  "It's  the  same 
with  you  and  me.  We're  both  passive  now.  Cir- 
cumstances, unavoidable  circumstances,  have  made 
us  so.  But  the  something  within  us,  that  I  got 
from  my  mother  and  you  got  from  your  father,  the 
something  indescribable  that  moves  the  world,  is 


64  The  Quest  Eternal 

not  dead.  It's  only  waiting  to  be  released.  Until 
then  no  one  can  see  it,  no  one  can  know.  But  when 
that  time  of  release  comes,  when  you  and  I  who 
have  given  it  release  see  for  ourselves,  then — 
then — "  abruptly  the  voice  halted.  Of  a  sudden 
self-consciousness  had  returned  and  the  fluent  tongue 
became  clumsy.  "Then  you  will  believe  with  me 
that,  after  all,  nothing  has  been  wasted,  not  a  single 
sacrifice,"  he  finished  dully. 

For  long,  for  very  long,  there  was  silence.  Not 
once  while  the  man  was  speaking  had  the  woman 
stirred.  She  did  not  do  so  now.  As  darkness  had 
gathered,  in  contrast  the  zone  of  light  from  the  arc 
on  the  corner  had  intensified.  In  it  her  face  stood 
out  distinct  and  clear,  cruelly  clear;  yet  she  made 
no  effort  to  avoid  it,  no  effort  at  concealment.  She 
merely  sat  there  while  the  minutes  passed,  while  the 
man,  her  companion,  waited  all  but  breathlessly  for 
a  hint  of  the  something  he  knew  was  taking  place  in 
her  brain.  Yet  he  got  no  clew.  Neither  then  nor 
ever  afterward  did  he  detect  a  clew.  Once,  watch- 
ing, he  saw  her  eyes  grow  moist  and  simultaneously 
the  straight  line  of  her  lip  grew  even  firmer;  but 
that  was  all.  Not  until,  hopeless  at  last,  the  watcher 
had  turned  away,  until  with  the  old  restlessness  his 
big,  ungainly  hands  had  taken  up  their  aimless 
caress,  did  she  speak.  Then  of  a  sudden  she  turned 
facing  him,  remained  so  until  reluctantly,  his  glance 
returned. 


The  Light  in  the  Distance          65 

"Can  you  still  pray,  Andy?"  she  asked  then 
abruptly. 

The  work-crippled  hands  halted  in  their  motion. 
The  fingers  locked. 

"God  knows,"  he  answered  all  but  unconsciously. 
"I  have  ceased  to  try." 

Just  for  a  second  the  woman  hesitated.  The  fine 
lines  with  which  middle  age  had  marked  her  face 
had  of  a  sudden  grown  deep.  The  great  weary 
circles  beneath  her  eyes  had  darkened,  intensified. 

"Do  so  now,  then,  Andy  man,"  she  admonished. 
"Pray  God,  as  you  never  prayed  before,  that  our 
child,  if  such  is  to  be,  may  be  a  boy."  With  a  repe- 
tition of  the  other's  own  motion  one  hand  went  to 
her  throat,  worked  at  the  collar  of  her  gown. 
"Pray  for  this  and  for  this  alone,  Andy  McLeod," 
she  repeated  passionately.  "Pray,  I  say." 

A  moment  she  sat  there  so,  throbbingly  tense, 
terribly  vital;  then,  as  suddenly  as  had  come  that 
glimpse  of  the  hidden  places  of  her  soul,  the  mood 
passed.  Even  as  the  man  looked  she  became  again 
the  normal,  passive  Mary  McLeod  known  of  the 
world.  It  was  this  Mary  McLeod  who  arose  de- 
liberately and  started  methodically  for  the  door. 

"It's  getting  late  and  to-morrow  will  be  a  busy 
day,"  she  said  monotonously.  "Come,  Andy;" 
and  as  it  was  ever  to  be  in  the  lives  of  these  two,  she 
led  the  way  within. 


CH'APTER  V 

FATE,  THE  SATIRIST 

A  MAN  who  might  be  forty-five  or  sixty,  ill-dressed, 
stoop-shouldered,  with  a  fringe  of  snow-white  hair 
encircling  a  battered  black  felt  hat,  and  a  small 
boy  of  eight  years,  who  limped  painfully  as  he 
walked,  moved  slowly  up  the  street  from  the  livery 
barn  at  the  edge  of  town  toward  the  main  business 
section  beyond.  Though  it  was  not  yet  nine  o'clock 
they  had  already  come  from  far  out  in  the  country, 
twenty-eight  miles  to  be  exact,  and  for  them  the 
day  was  well  under  way.  As  they  came  the  man's 
eyes  were  on  the  plank  sidewalk  at  his  feet;  but  out 
of  big  blue  eyes  the  boy  inspected  everything,  the 
buildings,  the  signs,  the  few  human  beings  they  met, 
with  the  frank  candour  of  unaccustomed  childhood, 
with  more — a  microscopic  minuteness  which  noth- 
ing escaped. 

Not  until  they  had  reached  the  principal  square 
of  the  town  and  a  two-story  stone  building,  "The 
Cedar  Co.  Bank,"  stood  imposingly  before  them, 
did  the  man  pause,  and  then  merely  to  assure  him- 
self of  his  location.  Satisfied  on  that  score  he 
took  the  boy  by  the  hand  and,  selecting  a  back 
stairway  plentifully  besprinkled  with  pine  whit- 


Fate,  the  Satirist  67 

tlings  of  the  day  before,  led  the  way  to  the  floor 
above. 

The  hallway  they  entered  was  ill-kept  and  greyish 
brown  with  the  dust  of  prairie.  No  human  being 
or  live  thing  was  visible.  At  the  end  of  the  corridor 
a  battered  tin  sign  displayed  a  hand  with  index 
finger  extended  and,  following  the  direction  indi- 
cated, one  saw  a  door  on  which  were  three  words : 

SAM  TREADWAY, 
Physician. 

Before  the  doorway  the  man  halted,  drawing  a 
long  breath  after  the  manner  of  one  unused  to  meet- 
ing strangers.  Then,  lifting  his  hand,  he  knocked. 

There  was  no  answer  nor  response  of  any  kind 
and  the  man  repeated  the  knock,  louder  than  be- 
fore. 

Again  there  was  no  response;  but  this  time,  with 
a  sudden  summoning  of  resolution,  the  man  tried 
the  door,  found  it  unlocked  and,  opening  it  wider, 
stepped  diffidently  within.  As  he  did  so,  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  menacing,  challenging, 
there  sounded  a  voice : 

"What  the  devil  do  you  want?"  it  screamed;  and, 
almost  without  interruption,  added:  "What  the 
devil  do  you  want,  I  say?" 

As  though  he  had  received  a  buffet  on  the  face  the 
man  halted.  The  little  boy  felt  the  big  hand  that 
held  his  own  tighten  until  the  grip  was  painful; 


68  The  Quest  Eternal 

then  while  they  stood  there  so,  ere  the  man  grasped 
the  situation,  the  same  voice  sounded  anew  in  a 
hoarse  croaking  laugh  that  ended  in  a  phrase  un- 
mistakable :  "Got  a  cracker  with  you  ?  Polly  wants 
a  cracker." 

As  suddenly  as  he  had  gone  tense  the  man  relaxed. 
The  boy's  hand  was  released. 

"It's  only  a  parrot,  Robbie,"  he  commented  re- 
lievedly.  "It — startled  me  for  a  moment,  though." 
From  the  main  room  which  they  had  entered,  an- 
other, with  door  ajar,  led  to  the  left,  and  he  looked 
at  it  absently.  "I  guess  the  doctor  isn't  down  yet." 

A  moment  passed,  an  uncertain  moment  then: 
"Up  you  mean  to  say,"  echoed  another  voice,  drily, 
an  unmistakably  human  voice  this  time.  It  came 
from  the  darkened  room  into  which  the  visitor  had 
peered.  "Come  in.  What's  wrong?" 

Again  the  man  halted  irresolutely.  Involuntarily 
his  eyes  went  to  the  gaudy  coloured  bird  that  stood 
testing  its  beak  on  the  wires  of  its  cage. 

"Come  in,  neighbour,"  repeated  the  voice,  a  bit 
testily  this  time.  "I'm  not  dangerous.  I  was  up  all 
night  and  just  got  to  bed  a  bit  ago  is  all.  Anybody 
sick?" 

Reluctantly,  again  unconsciously  taking  the  boy 
by  the  hand,  the  man  obeyed.  Before  the  bed  he 
halted,  peering  hesitatingly  through  the  semi-dark- 
ness at  the  man  upon  it. 

"No,  there  isn't  anybody  sick  exactly,"  he  ex- 


Fate,  the  Satirist  69 

plained.  "I  just  wanted  to  talk  to  you  a  bit  about 
the  boy  here." 

Treadway  lifted  upon  his  elbows  heavily  and 
shook  his  other  arm  free  of  the  cover. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'm  listening." 

"I  was  a  doctor  once  myself,"  commented  the 
visitor  haltingly,  "but  for  certain — reasons  I  ceased 
practising  some  time  ago."  He  released  his  com- 
panion's hand  and  shuffled  on  his  feet  nervously. 
"For  that  reason  I  felt  as  though  I  ought  to  have 
the  opinion  of  some  one  else,  some  one  in  active 
practice,"  he  completed. 

No  comment,  but  the  eyes  of  the  man  in  the  bed 
were  inspecting  the  lad  critically  from  crown  to  sole. 
At  the  latter  they  halted. 

"The  city,  Sioux  Ridge,  was  my  location,"  drifted 
on  the  visitor,  "only  in  those  days  it  wasn't  much  of 
a  city,  it  was  just  beginning  to  grow  nicely, 
and " 

"Lame,  are  you,  son?"  interrupted  Treadway 
abruptly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Little  stiff  in  the  left,  eh?" 

"Club  foot  papa  says  it  is,  sir,"  methodically. 

"Bobby,  Tom " 

"Robert  is  my  name,  Robert  McLeod." 

"All  right,  Rob.  Throw  up  the  shade  there  at 
the  window  for  a  bit,  will  you?" 

In  silence  the  lad  obeyed,  his  father  standing  mean- 


jo  The  Quest  Eternal 

time  as  at  first,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  slight, 
of  the  interruption.  In  equal  silence  he  returned 
and  at  a  nod  from  the  man  in  the  bed  removed 
the  misshapen  boot  and  held  up  the  foot  for  in- 
spection. 

Following  came  another  silence,  one  longer  than 
before;  the  silence  of  a  court  room  preceding  a 
sentence.  Seemingly  roughly,  but  nevertheless 
deftly,  the  big  doctor's  free  hand  passed  here  and 
there  over  the  clumsy  little  foot;  and  keeping  pace 
with  its  motion  followed  the  blue  eyes  of  the  small 
boy.  Once,  interrupting,  from  the  room  adjoin- 
ing sounded  the  rough  call  of  the  bird  Polly,  pro- 
claiming his  need  of  refreshment,  and  at  the  sound 
McLeod  started  as  he  had  done  at  the  first  chal- 
lenge; but  that  was  all.  Two  minutes  the  inspec- 
tion took,  three  perhaps;  then  with  the  same  word- 
less nod  Treadway  indicated  release  and  the  stock- 
ing and  the  misshapen  shoe  on  the  floor  resumed 
their  place.  Through  it  all,  save  with  his  free 
hand,  the  doctor  had  not  stirred.  His  great  shaggy 
head  still  lay  supported  upon  his  elbow;  his  eyes 
merely  followed  the  motions  of  the  lad  at  work. 
Not  until  the  boy  had  finished,  until,  again  erect, 
he  stood  by  his  father's  side  was  a  word  spoken,  and 
that  a  single  interrogation. 

"Well — "  suggested  Treadway. 

For  the  third  time  McLeod  started.  His  hand 
sought  that  of  the  boy,  more  in  than  for  protection. 


Fate,  the  Satirist  71 

"I — we  wanted  your  opinion,"  he  halted.  "I 
thought  that  you  being  in  active  practice " 

"Just  what  did  you  wish  to  know  ?" 

The  face  of  McLeod  reddened.  Then  with  a 
trace  of  his  old  dignity  he  straightened. 

"I  came  to  see  if  you  would  operate,"  he  said 
directly. 

For  the  space  of  half  a  minute  the  two  men  in- 
spected each  other.  The  time  seemed  longer. 

"Before  I  answer,"  said  Treadway  at  last,  "I'd 
like  to  ask  you  a  question.  Why  hasn't  the  opera- 
tion been  performed  before?" 

"Why?"  Again  the  hand  that  held  that  of  the 
little  boy  in  its  grip  had  tightened  until  the  pres- 
sure was  painful;  but  this  time  the  eyes  held  their 
ground.  "For  the  same  reason  that  I  quit  active 
practice  years  ago :  because  I've  lost  my  nerve." 

"And  there  were  no  other  surgeons  in  the  coun- 
try?" 

McLeod's  eyes  dropped.  His  lips  moved  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"I  repeat,"  pressed  Treadway,  "you  have  just  re- 
membered that  there  are  other  surgeons  in  prac- 
tice?" 

For  a  moment  McLeod  stood  irresolute,  waver- 
ing; then  swiftly,  jerkily  he  led  the  little  boy  to  the 
outer  room,  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  re- 
turned. 

"I  know  what  you  think,"  he  said  swiftly,  "and  I 


72  The  Quest  Eternal 

have  no  defence  to  offer — at  least  none  that  you'd 
understand."  He  swallowed  nervously  as  though 
his  tongue  were  painfully  dry.  "I'd  hoped  every- 
thing for  that  boy,  planned  everything  for  him. 
My  own  life  was  a  failure.  It  seemed  I  had 
nothing  else  to  live  for  but  hope,  and  when  he  was 
born  that  way,  born — "  The  speaker  sat  down 
on  the  nearest  chair,  staring  straight  before  him. 
"As  I  said,  I  don't  suppose  you'll  understand.  No 
one  can  understand  who's  not  been  there;  but  I  lost 
faith  in  everything,  ceased  to  care.  I  simply 
drifted." 

"And  now?"  Just  perceptibly  Treadway  had 
lifted  in  his  place.  "And  now?"  he  repeated. 

"He's  old  enough  to  begin  to  think  for  himself. 
He  wanted  to  come." 

"Just  one  thing  more."  The  questioner's  face  was 
a  blank.  "His  mother — didn't  she  insist?" 

Once  again  in  that  interrupted  conversation  there 
was  a  pause;  but  this  time  shorter.  Breaking  it 
McLeod  arose,  his  work-stiffened  fingers  inter- 
locked. 

"His  mother,"  he  said  simply,  "was  thirty-seven 
when  he  was  born.  She  never  lived  to  see  him." 

For  the  first  time  in  those  last  minutes  Treadway's 
eyes  left  his  companion,  sought  the  window  and  the 
blue  of  the  prairie  sky  beyond. 

"I — beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  at  last  and  the 
voice  was  almost  gentle.  He  pushed  his  hair  back 


Fate,  the  Satirist  73 

from  his  forehead  restlessly.  "To  answer  your 
question.  An  operation  is  necessary  for  the  boy  of 
course,  the  sooner  the  better." 

"Will  you  take  the  case?"  asked  McLeod. 

"No."  Treadway  was  still  looking  out  the  win- 
dow, looking  away  deliberately.  "The  case  has  been 
delayed  too  long  for  me,  I  don't  have  experience 
enough  here  to  attempt  it.  It  needs  a  man  who  has 
practice  in  that  sort  of  thing  right  along.  I'd  take 
him  to  the  city  if  I  were  you." 

"To  the  city  I"  McLeod  had  come  a  step  nearer 
and  stood  looking  down  at  the  man  in  the  bed 
fixedly,  almost  with  a  petition.  "I'm  poor,  poor 
as  an  emigrant.  I  haven't  money  to  do  that." 

Still  Treadway  did  not  glance  up,  still  almost  sym- 
pathetically lay  looking  away. 

"You  wouldn't  be  charged  much,  if  you  explained 
that  you  were  in  practice  once  yourself,"  he  refuted. 
"Anyhow,  you  must  do  it  some  way." 

McLeod  walked  across  the  room  fair  into  the 
other  man's  range  of  vision,  his  bent  shoulders  out- 
lined against  the  light. 

"Who" — his  face  was  hid — "who  is  it  you  have  in 
mind  there?"  he  asked. 

Treadway  listened — in  the  fulness  of  knowledge. 
Though  his  companion  did  not  know,  he  too  had 
once  practiced  in  the  prairie  metropolis. 

"I  think  you  know  without  my  telling  you,"  he 
said  at  last  gently.  "There's  only  one  man  who's 


74  The  Quest  Eternal 

made  a  specialty  and  a  success  of  surgery  there: 
Sidney  Stone!" 


Down  the  darkened  hallway  went  McLeod,  the 
boy's  hand  locked  tight  in  his  own,  his  eyes  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  Just  outside 
the  threshold  he  stumbled,  as  one  who  could  not 
see  clearly,  over  the  door  mat;  but  went  on  uncon- 
scious of  the  interruption.  On  the  corner  was  the 
village  post-office  with  its  accustomed  crowd  of 
idling  spectators  and  where  he  was  wont  to  stop ;  but 
he  went  past  without  a  pause.  As  ever,  observant, 
the  boy  held  back  and  tugged  at  the  leading  hand. 

"Don't  you  want  the  mail,  papa  ?"  he  questioned. 

"No."  The  voice  was  almost  rough.  "I'm  in  a 
hurry.  I — want  to  get  home." 

Down  the  street  they  went,  a  pathetic,  almost 
tragic,  pair.  Before  the  single  general  store  and 
its  long  row  of  hitching  posts,  their  nearest  neigh- 
bour, a  raw-boned  Norwegian  of  the  name  of  Swen- 
son,  made  a  motion  to  halt  them;  but,  ignoring  the 
obvious  intent,  McLeod  led  on.  Not  while  they 
were  within  the  limits  of  the  town  was  another 
word  spoken,  not  until  the  bare  prairie  road,  a 
narrow  ribbon  of  brown  stretching  straight  as  a  taut 
cord  into  the  distance  before  them,  was  steadily  un- 
winding was  there  an  interruption.  Then,  of  a 
sudden,  without  preface,  the  boy  spoke. 


Fate,  the  Satirist  75 

"What  did  the  doctor  say,  papa?"  he  asked  di- 
rectly. 

The  reins  in  McLeod's  hands  twitched,  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"Tell  me,  please,  papa,"  persisted  the  boy.  "I 
want  to  know." 

The  man  clucked  at  the  team,  although  they  were 
already  going  at  a  goodly  pace. 

"Treadway  said  that  he  didn't  want  anything  to 
do  with  the  case,"  he  answered  shortly.  Again  he 
clucked  at  the  horses,  unconsciously,  nervously. 
"He  was  sorry  but — he  didn't  want  anything  to  do 
with  the  case." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  wherein  the  little 
figure  by  the  man's  side  grew  tense,  peculiarly  tense 
for  a  child.  Then  with  a  sudden  motion  he  turned, 
until  he  looked  his  father  fair  in  the  face. 

"Did  he  say  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  that  I 
was  to  be  lame  always?"  he  asked. 

Again  McLeod  seemed  not  to  hear,  seemed 
wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts;  but  the  hands  that 
held  the  reins  were  still  unnaturally  rigid. 

'Deliberately,  distinctly,  without  a  tremor  or  a 
shifting  of  the  uncannily  mature  gaze  the  boy  re- 
peated the  question. 

"Say  ?"  It  was  useless  to  dissimulate  longer.  "I 
told  you  what  he  said."  Real  anger,  not  feigned, 
sounded  in  the  hurried  voice.  "You'll  drive  me 
mad  with  your  eternal  questioning.  I  tell  you  he 


76  The  Quest  Eternal 

didn't  want  anything  to  do  with  the  case.    He  said 
so." 

A  mile  they  went,  another,  and  another  and  on 
until  five  had  reeled  beneath  the  wheels  of  their 
wagon.  About  them  was  the  beauty  of  early  sum- 
mer, the  wonder  of  prairie  distance;  but  neither 
noticed,  neither  cared.  Just  beneath  the  surface, 
thinly  veiled,  there  was  war  between  those  two  that 
day;  seemingly  an  unequal  warfare  because  one  bel- 
ligerent was  a  child  and  the  other  a  man.  Yet  age 
is  not  always  measured  by  years  and  to  one  who 
knew  that  slender  blue-eyed  boy  the  battle  was  far 
from  won.  For  this  was  not  the  first  time  that  his 
will  and  that  of  his  father  had  met.  But  a  part  of 
the  story  had  McLeod  told  the  other  doctor  that 
morning,  a  mere  suggestion  in  fact.  Tragedy 
seemed  ever  lurking  in  the  life  of  this  man,  ever 
appearing  as  a  part  of  it;  but  never  had  it  come 
with  such  a  crushing  force  as  on  the  day  when  this 
his  child  of  hope  was  born.  Words  are  futile  things, 
a  mockery  at  times.  To  describe  that  day  of  long 
ago  with  words  were  cheap  and  paltry.  It  was  the 
crushing  straw,  the  last  drop  of  bitterness  in  a  cup 
full  already  to  overflowing.  Had  the  mother  lived, 
Andrew  McLeod  might  have  accepted  this  unex- 
pected curse  of  partial  deformity,  recovered  his 
hope  and  trust.  Had  the  boy  been  a  normal  child 
he  might,  would,  have  adjusted  himself  to  the  loss, 
the  sacrifice.  But  that  the  two  came  together, 


Fate,  the  Satirist  77 

tragedy  heaped  upon  tragedy — the  bitterness  of 
that  hour  never  passed  from  his  mind,  never  grew 
less.  At  first  he  had  fought  against  it,  had  fought 
honestly;  but  the  effort  was  hopeless.  The  aggra- 
vation, the  offence,  the  final  dictum  of  fate  was  ever 
before  his  eyes.  In  his  better  moments  he  cursed 
himself  then  as  now  for  his  weakness,  his  injustice; 
but  he  could  not  overcome  it.  Bit  by  bit  he  had 
grown  to  hate  the  sight  of  this  his  own  child;  hate 
it  for  that  which  the  child  was  not  to  blame,  hate 
it  as  a  personification  of  the  dogging  adverse  fate 
that  pursued  him,  that  crushed  him  down  and 
down.  Tragic  beyond  all  tragedy  it  was ;  but  never- 
theless it  was  so.  Day  by  day,  year  by  year  they 
had  lived  side  by  side ;  yet  like  a  spectre  the  knowl- 
edge of  this  hate  had  ever  stood  separative  between 
them:  a  living  curse  that  would  go  to  the  elder's 
grave,  a  thing  to  which  the  passage  of  time  but 
added  bitterness. 

Thus  they  rode  across  the  prairie  that  day,  thus 
for  the  silent  five  miles;  then,  abruptly  as  before, 
came  another  question. 

"Haven't  you  told  me  again  and  again,  papa," 
the  lad  was  looking  his  father  direct,  "that  I  could 
be  helped,  could  be  made  like — other  boys?" 

The  new  attack  was  like  salt  on  an  open  wound. 
McLeod  writhed. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  now,"  he  objected  roughly. 
"I've — been  annoyed  enough  to-day." 


78  The  Quest  Eternal 

"But  I  want  to  be  sure,  now." 

"Yes,  then.    I — thought  so  when  I  said  it." 

"And  the  doctor  to-day  said  different,  said  there 
was  no  hope  ?" 

Like  the  baited  human  that  he  was  McLeod 
flashed  about. 

"I  forbid  you  to  ask  me  another  question," 
he  flamed.  He  halted,  his  whole  body  trem- 
bling "I've  told  you  twice  already  what  he 
said." 

Jog,  jog  sounded  the  horses'  feet  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  whirring  wheels.  Beside  the  road  a 
meadow  lark  trilled  its  five-toned  lay,  and  again. 
Here  and  there,  darting,  circling,  passing  back  and 
forth,  winged  a  troupe  of  swallow,  following  the 
moving  team,  reaping  a  harvest  on  the  insect  life 
startled  into  motion.  For  a  time  the  boy  was  silent, 
watching  them — apparently;  but  in  appearance 
only.  Of  a  sudden  his  gaze  fastened  upon  his 
father  with  a  look  in  which  there  was  no  fear,  which 
would  not  be  denied,  terrible  in  its  testimony  of  sus- 
picion. 

"Papa,"  he  questioned  slowly,  "have  you  told  me 
all  that  Dr.  Treadway  said,  have  you  told  every- 
thing?" 

With  a  sound  perilously  near  a  curse  McLeod 
turned.  He  met  his  son's  eyes.  He  tried  to  speak; 
but  no  words  came.  A  minute  passed  so.  Then 
again  the  boy  spoke;  awful  words  he  could  not 


Fate,  the  Satirist  79 

prevent,  harvest  of  months  of  doubt  and  bitterness, 
rebellion  open  at  last. 

"Papa,"  he  said,  "I  believe  you  hate  me,  that  you 
don't  care  if  I  am  a  cripple  always,  don't  care  what 
becomes  of  me."  He  did  not  drop  his  look,  did  not 
pause.  "I  believe  you're  hiding  something  now, 
something  I  have  a  right  to  know."  Of  a  sudden 
his  tiny  hand  dropped  on  the  reins,  drew  tight  until 
the  team  stopped  there  on  the  prairie.  "Tell  me 
what  it  is.  I  will  know.  If  you  don't  I'll  go  back 
and  find  out  for  myself.  I  will  know,  I  say." 

A  moment  they  sat  there  so,  in  a  climax  greater 
than  the  drama,  intense  as  life,  vivid  thereafter  in 
the  memory  of  both  participants  as  a  lightning 
flash.  Then  of  a  sudden,  as  ever  transpired  in 
times  of  crisis  these  later  years,  the  will  of  Andrew 
McLeod  weakened ;  weakened  until  he  grew  fairly 
piteous. 

"No" — of  a  sudden  he  had  found  tongue — "don't 
go  back,"  he  pleaded,  "don't.  I'll  tell  you  every- 
thing." He  had  started  the  team  anew,  almost 
desperately.  "I  meant  to  tell  you  later,  but  I'll  tell 
you  now." 

Word  for  word  he  did  so,  concealing  nothing, 
forgetting  nothing.  Swiftly  he  spoke,  relentlessly, 
sparing  not  himself;  and  without  an  interruption 
the  boy  listened.  "That's  all,"  he  said  at  last. 
"It's  only  a  matter  of  money.  We  must  get  that 
first,  must  save  it.  We'll  begin  at  once,  this  very 


8o  The  Quest  Eternal 

day.  We  can  and  we  will — we  will."  He  was 
silent. 

Listening  through  it  all  the  boy  had  not  spoken  a 
word.  Now  at  the  close  he  did  not.  Time  passed. 
Monotonously  again  the  miles  flowed  beneath  the 
droning  wheels.  Not  until  from  a  dot  in  the  dis- 
tance their  own  small  house  became  plain  to  view, 
until  they  were  all  but  there  was  there  an  interrup- 
tion. Then  in  the  same  unchildlike  voice  the  boy 
spoke : 

"I'm  sorry  I  had  to  do  as  I  did,  papa,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  don't  mean  to  bother  you.  I — I'm 
sorry." 

But  the  father  said  never  a  word. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  NEW  ACTOR 

"PLEASE,  boy,  may  I  have  some  of  them  radishes?" 

The  time  was  afternoon,  late  afternoon,  with  the 
sun  below  the  distant  horizon  line;  the  place  the 
McLeod  garden,  just  off  the  main  road,  ten  rods 
from  the  house;  the  one  addressed  a  slender  tow- 
headed  boy  of  eight  in  baggy  cut-down  overalls 
and  one  suspender.  The  latter  looked  up  from  his 
work,  his  hands  covered  with  dirt  and  green  with 
the  stain  of  weeds  against  which  he  had  been  wag- 
ing warfare. 

"What  did  you  say  you  wanted?"  he  asked  de- 
liberately, though  he  had  heard  plainly. 

The  question  was  repeated  and  meantime  the  ad- 
dressed took  stock  of  the  applicant.  It  was  why 
he  had  asked  the  question,  instead  of  showing 
surprise  at  the  unexpected  interruption.  What  he 
saw  was  a  small  dark  girl  of  about  his  own  age, 
skinny  to  the  point  of  emaciation,  tattered  of  dress, 
with  great  black  eyes  peering  through  a  tangle  of 
equally  black  hair.  He  could  not  well  feign  igno- 
rance again,  therefore  he  temporised. 

"What  do  you  want  them  for?"  he  asked. 

"To  throw  at  the  birds,  of  course."    The  small 


82  The  Quest  Eternal 

girl  grimaced  wickedly.  "What  do  folks  usually 
want  radishes  for?" 

Again  the  boy  showed  an  indication  of  disturbed 
composure. 

"I  meant  who  do  you  want  them  for?"  he  said 
calmly. 

"My  folks,"  laconically.  "They  sent  me.  They're 
unloading  out  there  in  the  road." 

The  boy  looked  as  indicated  and  understood.  Out 
in  the  section  road,  drawn  just  outside  the  beaten 
trail,  was  a  typical  prairie  schooner;  indelibly 
marked  of  sun  and  rain,  battered  and  disreputable. 
A  frowsy-looking  woman  had  alighted  and  already 
had  a  camp-fire  aglow;  a  thin  column  of  smoke 
therefrom  ascended  straight  as  a  taut  line  into  the 
still  air.  Around  her  swarmed  an  uncertain  number 
of  smaller  editions  of  herself,  varying  only  in  size 
and  comparative  disreputability.  Near  at  hand  a 
man  with  an  unshaven  face  was  picketing  for  the 
night  a  bony  team.  All  in  all  a  glance  told  their 
story.  The  land  was  full  of  their  kind  at  this  time : 
prairie  derelicts,  incapables  from  older  settled  lands, 
parasites  on  the  openly  hospitable  frontier — osten- 
sibly prospective  settlers.  The  boy's  glance  came 
back. 

"Help  yourself,"  he  granted  equally  laconically. 

But  instead  of  complying  the  girl  folded  her  lean 
arms  after  the  manner  of  one  who  was  master,  or 
mistress  rather,  of  the  situation. 


A  New  Actor  83 

"Gem'men,"  she  mouthed  the  word  adorably, 
"gem'men  should  wait  on  ladies — always,"  she  cor- 
rected. 

Clumsily,  with  a  limp  he  made  no  effort  to  conceal, 
of  which  except  at  times  he  had  grown  unconscious, 
the  boy  started  to  comply,  when  of  a  sudden  the 
girl's  folded  arms  opened. 

"'Scuse  me,"  she  apologised  quickly,  penitently; 
and,  swifter  than  the  other,  did  the  work  herself. 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  lame." 

As  though  he  had  been  struck  the  boy  stiffened, 
his  face  went  red;  then  slowly  shaded  back  to  nor- 
mal tan.  But  what  he  was  about  to  say  remains 
unrecorded,  for  that  moment  the  woman  in  the  road 
lifted  her  voice. 

"Peg!"  she  called,  and  without  pausing  in  her 
work  repeated:  "Peg!" 

Instead  of  answering  the  girl  stood  looking  at  her 
companion,  her  gypsy  dark  eyes  penitent. 

"I'm  sorry  I  said  that  about — gem'men,"  she  re- 
tracted. "I  didn't  mean  to — to  hurt  you." 

"Was  that  your  mother  calling?"  digressed  the 
boy  obviously. 

"No,"  and  the  penitent  eyes  grew  to  sudden  fierce- 
ness. "I  ain't  got  no  mother." 

"That's  your  father  then,"  deduced  the  boy  and 
nodding  toward  the  unshaven. 

"Peg!"  interrupted  the  woman  again  shrilly. 
"Come  here.  I  want  you." 


84  The  Quest  Eternal 

"No,"  ignored  the  girl  rebelliously.  "He  ain't 
my  father  neither.  He  married  my  mother,  but 
she's  dead.  My  pa's  dead  too."  She  shrugged  her 
skinny  shoulders  at  the  group  in  the  road.  "I  just 
go  along  with  them,  but  I  don't  belong  to  neither 
particularly.  I  don't  belong  to  nobody." 

"Peg  Stanton  1"  It  was  a  man's  voice  this  time, 
surly,  domineering,  unmistakable.  "Peg  Stanton, 
quit  chinning  that  boy  and  come  here  this  minute 

or "  The  voice  ended  in  a  rumbling  that 

might  or  might  not  have  been  profanity.  The  boy 
gathered  that  it  was. 

"I  think  maybe  you'd  better  go,"  he  suggested 
mildly. 

"I  was  just  going  to  say,"  continued  the  girl  from 
the  point  of  interruption,  "that  I  hate  them  and 
they  know  it."  With  studied  deliberation  she 
turned.  "I'm  going  to  run  away  soon,"  she  said 
over  her  shoulder.  "I've  done  it  before." 

Slowly,  defiantly  slowly,  the  small  bit  of  feminin- 
ity made  her  way  back  to  the  wagon,  where,  motion- 
less now,  the  woman  stood  awaiting  her  coming. 
The  man  too  had  paused  and  stood  with  one  hand 
on  the  canvas  schooner-flap,  watching.  Trouble 
was  in  the  air,  that  Robert  McLeod  saw,  and  he  too 
remained  still  in  his  place,  a  motionless  spectator. 

Slowly,  still  defiantly  slowly,  so  deliberately  that  it 
took  full  two  minutes  to  cover  those  two  rods  inter- 
vening, went  the  girl,  and  meantime  not  another 


A  New  Actor  85 

figure  in  the  drama  stirred.  Staring,  in  anticipa- 
tion, the  group  of  children  about  the  woman  be- 
came likewise  inert,  ominously  still.  Up  to  this 
group  at  last  came  the  little  girl,  her  head  held 
high,  the  bunch  of  radishes  she  had  gathered  a 
glaring  red  spot  against  the  dull  background  of  her 
faded  frock,  up  until  she  was  within  arm's  reach 
of  the  waiting  one.  Then  of  a  sudden  something 
happened.  Like  a  flash  one  of  the  woman's  hands 
shot  out,  caught  the  child  with  the  open  palm  fair 
across  the  mouth  with  a  slap  that  was  distinctly 
heard. 

"There,"  said  a  voice  squeaky  high  with  anger, 
"take  that,  spunky."  Her  hand  drew  back  anew, 
menacingly,  unmistakably.  "And " 

But  the  boy  waited  for  no  more.  With  a  bound 
and  an  odd  little  hopping  motion  of  his  crippled 
foot  he  made  for  the  scene  of  disturbance,  his  face 
a  sudden  flame,  the  blood  of  him  tingling  as  he  had 
never  felt  it  tingle  before,  the  garden  patch  that  was 
his  pride  suffering  at  every  leap.  "Stop  that!"  he 

shrilled.  "You — you "  He  stumbled,  choked, 

caught  himself  and  rushed  on.  "You — you — stop 
that,  I  say." 

Surprised,  uncertain,  the  woman  hesitated,  her 
hand  dropped;  and,  panting  with  the  effort,  crim- 
son-faced the  rescuer  drew  up  in  the  roadway. 
Merely  a  comedy  it  all  was,  but  it  seemed  to  him  the 
moment  of  destiny.  Halting,  his  small  fists  doubled 


86  The  Quest  Eternal 

hard,  his  breathing  a  labour,  he  waited ;  and  for  the 
second  time  in  that  brief  period  something,  a  thing 
that  was  not  comedy,  transpired.  Previously  the 
small  girl  had  not  stirred,  not  when  the  woman 
struck  her,  not  when  she  would  have  struck  her 
again;  but  now  of  a  sudden  she  turned  and,  so 
strange  is  life,  it  was  not  a  child  but  a  woman  like- 
wise that  looked  from  her  black  eyes. 

"Go  back,  boy,"  she  said  evenly.  "I'm  'bliged  to 
you,  but  I  can  take  care  of  myself."  She  turned 
facing  the  woman,  met  her  eye  to  eye.  "I  dare  you 
to  touch  me  again,"  she  challenged.  "I  dare  you." 

A  moment  they  all  stood  there  so,  dominate  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  to  her  will.  Then,  equally 
deliberately,  for  the  third  time,  the  defiance  was 
repeated. 

"I  dare  you  to  touch  me" — her  glance  included 
the  man  this  time —  "either  of  you.  I  dare  you !" 

Still  for  a  moment  no  one  stirred,  still  she  held 
the  mastery.  Then  as  suddenly  the  strain  relaxed. 
She  laughed ;  not  childishly  but  with  terrible,  evolved 
bitterness. 

"You're   cowards,   both   of  you,"    she   goaded. 

"You're  afraid,  afraid  as  death — and  of  me!" 
***** 

It  was  some  time  between  evening  and  morning. 
The  earth  and  sky  were  black;  black  as  the  syn- 
onym, black  with  the  inky  blackness  beneath  a 
clouded  vault  on  a  night  when  there  is  no  moon. 


A  New  Aetor  87 

From  the  dead  sleep  of  childhood  the  little  boy 
found  himself  suddenly  awakened,  completely  and 
instantly,  with  the  intense  alertness  of  the  suddenly 
conscious.  His  bed  was  in  the  lean-to  at  the  side  of 
the  house  proper.  Across  the  thin  partition,  in  the 
main  building,  his  father  slept,  was  sleeping  now. 
Preternaturally  sensitive,  the  boy  could  hear  his 
regular  snoring  and  the  hissing  puff  that  followed 
each  breath.  There  was  a  window  in  the  lean-to, 
a  window  at  this  time  of  the  year  minus  even  glass; 
but,  save  by  memory,  on  this  night  he  could  not 
have  told  its  location.  For  all  the  light  which  en- 
tered therein  it  might  have  been  solid  masonry. 
Waking,  he  had  instinctively  risen  in  bed;  but  listen- 
ing now,  except  for  the  regular  muffled  breathing, 
the  place,  the  surrounding  earth,  was  still  as  the 
grave.  Yet  he  was  not  deceived.  From  some- 
where, he  knew  not  where,  a  voice  had  whispered. 
Though  he  had  been  asleep  this  he  knew.  Why  it 
had  done  so,  or  from  where,  he  could  only  conjec- 
ture; but  that  it  would  repeat  itself  he  did  not 
doubt.  Waiting,  scarcely  breathing,  his  lips  un- 
consciously parted,  the  better  to  hear,  he  remained 
motionless,  staring  into  the  night. 

A  minute  passed,  or  longer;  then  suddenly,  out  of 

the  blackness,  the  call  was  repeated ;  a  call  distinct 

this  time,  shrilly  whispered,  penetrating. 

"Boy,"  it  insisted,  "wake  up  quick.    I  want  you." 

With  one  bound  the  small  listener  was  out  of  bed 


88  The  Quest  Eternal 

and  feeling  his  way  across  the  room.  No  need  to 
tell  him  who  was  the  possessor  of  that  voice.  The 
simple  word  "boy"  was  unmistakable.  No  need 
likewise  to  tell  him  from  whence  it  came.  There 
was  but  one  opening  from  without — and  that  the 
open  window.  Gingerly  he  made  his  way,  by  the 
sense  of  feeling  alone,  step  by  step.  He  was  half 
across  the  room,  the  cooler  breath  of  night,  enter- 
ing at  the  open  casement,  on  his  face,  when  came 
disaster.  In  his  hurry  he  had  forgotten  something 
— and  that  thing  was  important.  Child's  clothes 
to  wear  by  day  he  had  few.  For  night  he  had  none. 
Now  as  usual  he  was  encased  in  one  of  his  father's 
cast-off  nightshirts.  It  was  this  which  brought  him 
to  grief.  Over  the  long  dragging  tails  he  stumbled 
and,  before  he  could  catch  his  balance,  fell. 

Ere  he  could  rise,  ere  he  had  again  got  his  bear- 
ings, there  was  a  rustle  and  a  tearing  of  coarse  cloth 
where  a  nail  had  done  its  work.  Then,  through 
the  open  window,  like  a  tossed  ball,  shot  another 
small  piece  of  humanity;  and  a  second  later  the  two 
children  were  lying  in  a  tangled  heap  upon  the  lean- 
to  floor.  Simultaneously  a  voice  sounded,  a  voice 
close  to  his  ear. 

"Sh-h,"  it  whispered.  "Don't  make  a  sound. 
He's  looking  for  me." 

For  minutes  they  lay  so,  still  as  young  animals  when 
the  enemy  is  abroad  and  very  near  at  hand ;  so  still 
that  they  could  hear  the  beating  of  their  own  hearts. 


A  New  Actor  89 

The  lean-to  was  loosely  built,  and  through  the 
cracks  between  the  boards,  almost  as  the  girl  had 
spoken,  there  sifted  the  rays  of  a  distant  light.  Sec- 
ond by  second  it  drew  nearer  and  nearer ;  and,  as  the 
glow  brightened,  there  sounded  the  steps  of  some  one 
walking.  On  it  came  until  the  filtered  light  was  suf- 
ficient for  the  children  to  see  each  other's  faces; 
then,  when  the  boy  felt  certain  the  searcher 
had  seen  his  companion  enter  and  would  appear 
the  next  instant  at  the  open  window,  of  a  sud- 
den the  rays  began  slanting  swiftly  across  the 
floor,  and  rapidly  as  it  had  brightened,  the  glow 
faded. 

Not  until  the  last  ray  had  vanished,  until  the  place 
was  again  black  as  in  the  beginning  and  the  sound 
of  the  footsteps  had  ceased,  did  the  boy  move. 
Then  clumsily  he  got  to  his  feet  and,  reaching  down 
where  he  had  seen  the  small  girl's  hand,  he  lifted 
her  beside  him.  He  had  been  busy  thinking  those 
last  minutes  and  he  wasted  no  time  on  superfluities. 

"Why  are  you  running  away?"  he  whispered. 

Silently,  not  as  a  child,  but  as  one  old  in  knowl- 
edge of  life,  the  other  drew  the  hand  which  she 
held  in  her  own,  up  her  small  arms  and  across  her 
shoulders.  The  dress  was  very  thin  and  in  spite  of 
himself  the  boy  caught  his  breath  at  what  he  felt. 

"That's  one  reason,"  she  whispered  tensely. 
"They  did  it  to-night,  after  you  left, — between 
them."  She  did  not  cry,  but  her  words  came  chok- 


90  The  Quest  Eternal 

ing,  quick.  "They  didn't  dare  while  it  was  light, 
while  I  could  look  at  them;  but  afterward,  when  the 
fire  was  out  and  it  was  bedtime — "  She  caught 
herself  shortly,  with  an  effort.  "But  that  isn't  the 
real  reason.  I  had  meant  to  leave  them  to- 
night anyway.  They've  been  making  me  steal 
for  them — chickens  and  garden  truck — and  I 
wouldn't  do  it  any  more.  That's  why  they  whipped 
me." 

"And  now  that  you  have  left — "  again  the 
questioner  was  thinking  hard. 

"I'll  find  a  place  where  some  one  will  let  me  work 
for  my  keep  or — or  starve." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Again  the  boy 
was  thinking. 

"How  did  you  know  I  slept  here?"  he  digressed 
at  last,  abruptly  as  before. 

"I  peeked — while  you  and  your  father  were  at 
supper.  They  were  watching  me  to-night,  that's 
how  he  came  to  know  I  was  gone  and  followed  me, 
so  quick;  and  I  thought  I  might  want  a  place  to 
hide." 

For  the  first  time  the  boy  recalled  the  duties  of 
hospitality  and,  his  companion's  hand  still  in  his 
own,  he  led  the  way  to  the  bed  and  sat  down. 
Though  they  were  very,  very  old  children,  prema- 
turely old,  they  were  still  children  nevertheless  and 
nestled  close  to  each  other  in  the  darkness. 

For  a  long  time,  for  both  were  planning  now, 


A  New  Actor  91 

there  was  silence  between  them,  silence  over  all  the 
earth.  It  was  the  girl  who  spoke  at  last. 

"What's  your  name,  boy?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Robert  McLeod." 

"Robert !"  For  the  instant  Peg  had  forgotten  her 
troubles  and  she  mouthed  the  word  disapprovingly. 
"That's  too  long.  I'm  going  to  call  you  Bob." 
Of  a  sudden  she  remembered.  "I  won't  have  a 
chance  to  call  you  anything  for  long,  though.  I'll 
have  to  be  going  pretty  soon.  He'll  be  here  at  the 
house  looking  for  me  as  soon  as  he  thinks  you  folks 
are  up." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  to  go  away  now,  afraid  of  the 
night,  Peg?"  asked  the  boy. 

Had  it  been  light  there  would  have  been  no  need 
to  ask  that  question.  But  it  was  not  light. 

"Yes,"  at  last. 

"Have  you  any  idea  where  you  are  going?" 

"No." 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence,  a  silence  fraught 
with  meaning,  a  silence  that  compassed  a  decision. 

"Why  don't  you  stay  here  with  us,  then?"  asked 
the  boy. 

"Oh-h!"  whispered  Peg;  but  the  hand  that  still 
lay  within  his  own  trembled. 

The  boy  understood  and  his  own  hand  tightened 
protectingly,  decisively. 

"I'll  hide  you  here  until  the  man  quits  looking. 
He'll  think  you've  run  away  for  sure  after  a  bit  and 


92  The  Quest  Eternal 

give  you  up.  Then  you  can  come  out  and — and 
stay  always." 

"Oh-h!"  repeated  Peg.    That  was  all. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  stay  here?"  asked  the  boy. 

"Like  to!"  Words  failed.  "But"— a  sudden 
difficulty  had  appeared  on  her  horizon — "but  your 
father?" 

Of  a  sudden  likewise  the  boy  remembered.  It  was 
not  like  him  to  forget — yet  he  had  forgotten. 

"I — "  there  was  almost  a  choke  in  Peg's  voice 
this  time,  "I  don't  believe  your  father  would  want 
me." 

In  his  short  life  the  boy  had  not  learned  to  lie  and 
he  said  nothing.  His  small  hand  tightened  on  the 
smaller  one  within  his  grasp.  That  was  all. 

Silence  fell  between  them ;  an  intimate  silence  that 
took  no  note  of  time.  Though  they  did  not  know 
it  was  already  nearing  morning  and  while  they  sat 
there  so,  unconscious  of  the  flying  minutes,  day- 
break came  on  apace.  Bit  by  bit  the  dense  darkness 
all  surrounding  grew  less  shadowy.  Toward  the 
lean-to  wall,  where  before  all  was  uniform  black, 
now,  shade  by  shade,  appeared  a  greyish  square 
that  was  the  sky  beyond  the  window.  Over  the 
earth  as  a  whole,  the  intense  stillness  that  had 
wrapped  it  during  the  night  seemed  imperceptibly 
leaving.  Out-of-doors  to  the  east  not  a  suggestion 
but  a  definite  horizon  line  appeared.  Over  it,  upon 
the  sky  itself,  broadened,  deepened  a  tinge  of  red. 


A  New  Actor  93 

Answering  the  glow,  simultaneous  with  its  appear- 
ance, startling  in  its  suddenness,  unmistakable  in  its 
warning,  came  a  call  from  the  McLeod  hen-house 
at  the  south  slope  of  the  barn :  the  exultant  crow  of 
a  cock  first  to  awake  and  announce  the  coming  of 
day ;  and,  like  an  echo,  less  exultant  but  convincing 
its  repetition  by  a  mate  in  a  different  key. 

Swift  as  thought,  as  the  return  of  absent  conscious- 
ness the  girl  Peg  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  notice,"  she  whispered.  "It's  get- 
ting light.  I  must  be  going — quick." 

Of  a  sudden  Bob  McLeod  was  erect;  but  the  grip 
on  the  little  girl's  hand  did  not  loosen.  Instead  it 
tightened. 

"You  aren't  going,  Peg,"  he  said  steadily.  They 
could  see  each  other's  faces  now  and  he  answered 
the  unspoken  question  he  read.  "Papa  needn't  know 
until  they've  gone.  Then  you  will  be  here  and — 
and — "  his  eyes  dropped.  Unconsciously  the  grip 
of  his  fingers  loosened — "after  a  bit  he'll  learn  to 
like  you  too." 

This  time  the  girl  said  nothing;  but  sympathetic- 
ally she  too  looked  away.  With  the  leaving  of  in- 
timate night,  a  sudden  mutual  shyness  seemed  to 
have  come  upon  them.  A  moment  it  held  them 
speechless,  irresolute ;  then  the  practical,  never  long 
absent  from  the  queerly  matured  boy,  reasserted 
itself. 

"Papa'll  be  up  soon,  though,"  he  whispered  sud- 


94  The  Quest  Eternal 

denly,  "and  he  mustn't  see  you  yet.  You  must  hide 
somewhere."  He  glanced  about  the  almost  bare 
room  critically,  minutely.  The  solution  appeared. 
"There,  under  the  bed,  quick,"  he  warned,  for  of  a 
sudden  the  snoring  across  the  partition  had  ceased; 
and  leading,  almost  pushing,  he  bundled  the  stow- 
away from  sight. 


THE  GIANT  AND  THE  PYGMY 

ANDREW  McLEOD  was  up  but  not  yet  dressed  when 
came  the  interruption:  a  mighty  rap  and  a  lesser 
repetition,  like  an  echo  on  the  single  cottonwood 
door.  Involuntarily  complaisant,  forgetful  that 
his  feet  were  still  bare,  he  answered  the  summons, 
fumbling  with  his  suspenders  on  the  way.  Simul- 
taneous with  the  opening  of  the  door,  ere  an  invita- 
tion had  been  spoken,  one  entered. 

"My  name's  Gordon,"  announced  the  newcomer, 
"and  I  camped  last  night  out  here  in  the  road. 
Probably  you  recognise  me."  He  glanced  about 
the  room  swiftly,  with  an  air  of  bullying  mastery. 
"I  fancy  you  know  without  my  telling  what  I  came 
for." 

McLeod  was  still  struggling  with  his  braces.  The 
hand  which  adjusted  them  over  his  rounded  shoul- 
ders trembled. 

"Yes,  I  recognise  you,"  he  hesitated,  "but  farther 
than  that,  what  you  came  for — "  He  halted  un- 
certainly, the  sentence  unfinished. 

"Don't  know,  eh?"  The  inspection  of  the  room 
ceased,  was  transferred  to  its  rightful  occupant. 
"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  looking  for  my  girl  I 


96  The  Quest  Eternal 

Peg,  we  call  her.  She  ran  away  last  night."  He 
had  begun  swiftly,  but  now  his  speech  became  de- 
liberate; after  the  manner  of  a  cat  when  the  mouse 
is  within  its  power.  "I  knew  very  soon  after  she 
left  last  night,  and  I  had  a  lantern.  There  was  a 
heavy  dew  and  I  followed  her  easy  until  I  came  to 
the  bare  place  about  the  house  here.  Then  it  quit 
and  I  wasn't  able  to  find  it  going  any  farther."  He 
halted  and  looked  his  companion  contemptuously 
from  crown  to  toe.  "Maybe  you  gather  now  why 
I  called  on  you,"  he  completed. 

The  braces  were  adjusted  at  last  and  McLeod's 
hands  retreated  to  his  pockets. 

"You — think  she  got  in  here  some  way  and  hid?" 
he  hesitated. 

"Think!  I'm  not  a  damn  fool.  The  track  came 
here  and  quit.  She  can't  fly." 

"But  there's  only  one  door  and  I  locked  that  my- 
self, before  I  went  to  bed."  McLeod  had  become 
conscious  of  his  bare  feet  on  the  rough  floor  and 
shifted  uneasily.  "Besides,  I  sleep  in  this  room  my- 
self." 

"I've  noticed  all  you  say,"  remarked  Gordon  sar- 
castically. 

"She  couldn't  have  come  in  here  without  my  hear- 
ing or  gotten  out  and  left  the  door  locked,  the  way 
it  was  now,"  continued  McLeod.  He  looked  his 
big  visitor  conciliatorily.  "You  must  be  mistaken." 

"Mistaken  nothing."     Gordon's  unshaven  jaw 


The  Giant  and  the  Pygmy          97 

settled  stubbornly.  "I  tell  you  I'm  not  a  damn  fool. 
You  can't  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes.  You  know 
where  she  is  right  now." 

"You  tell  me  I'm  lying  to  you?"  McLeod  had 
stiffened  and  his  hands,  released  from  his  pockets, 
were  clasping  and  unclasping  involuntarily.  "You 
insult  me  in  my  own  house  by  telling  me  that?" 

A  moment  Gordon  hesitated.  Bully  that  he  was 
he  had  not  intended  going  so  far.  Involuntarily  he 
drew  back  a  step. 

"You're  putting  it  a  bit  strong,"  he  temporised. 
"I  didn't  mean  that  exactly.  I — wanted  your 
assurance  that  you  had  not  seen  the  girl  was 
all." 

"You  have  it."  McLeod's  face  was  very  pale  and 
working  jerkily.  "I  know  nothing  whatever  about 
your  girl  either  last  night  or  now.  Is  that  suffi- 
cient?" 

"Perhaps — and  perhaps  not."  In  measure  as  the 
face  of  the  other  had  whitened  that  of  the  speaker 
had  grown  dark.  It  was  a  quarrel  at  last,  a  quarrel 
with  a  physical  inferior,  and  he  was  in  his  element. 
"Leastways  you  won't  have  any  objection  to  my 
looking  through  the  house.  If  you're  telling  the 
truth  you'll  be  glad  to  have  it  proved." 

A  moment  again  there  was  silence,  wherein 
McLeod  struggled  for  self-possession;  then  swiftly, 
his  bare  feet  pattering  on  the  bare  floor,  he  moved 
to  the  door  which  the  other  had  closed  behind  him 


98  The  Quest  Eternal 

and  swung  it  wide.  "I  request  you  to  leave,  sir," 
he  said  tensely. 

Equally  swiftly  Gordon  turned,  suspecting  an 
ambush,  moved  half  way  to  comply — then  halted. 
No  one  but  the  same  prematurely — broken  man  con- 
fronted him.  Responsive  his  face  shaded  darker 
than  before.  The  great  veins  in  his  neck  swelled. 

"You — request  me  to  leave,  do  you?"  he  sneered. 
"Well  I  will  when  I  get  good  and  ready.  But  first 
I'll  find  out  how  big  a  liar  you  are."  A  second  he 
stood  so,  leering,  challenging;  then  clumping 
across  the  room  he  threw  open  the  door  of  a  closet 
in  one  corner  and  peered  within.  "I'll  find  out,  I 
say,"  he  repeated;  "and  if  she's  here  I'll  teach  you 
good  and  plenty  what  it  means  to  hide  a  kid  of 
mine." 

Standing  where  he  was,  his  hand  on  the  knob  of 
the  door,  nervously  impotent,  McLeod  watched  the 
other  as  he  went  about  the  inspection.  Far  from 
him  was  thought  of  his  bare  feet  or  the  chill  of 
early  morning  now.  Instead  the  room  felt  hot  and 
close,  so  close  that  he  struggled  for  breath.  Since 
that  last  request,  that  last  cheap  bluff  it  had  proven 
to  be,  he  had  said  nothing,  done  nothing.  To  save 
his  own  self-respect,  to  avoid  this  last  degradation 
in  his  own  house  he  could  not.  Time  after  time 
as  the  other  made  his  leisurely  search  he  tried ;  but 
each  effort  ended  in  failure.  Like  one  in  a  night- 
mare he  was  incapable  for  the  time  being  of  re- 


The  Giant  and  the  Pygmy          99 

sistance,  rendered  impotent  by  his  own  subervience. 
Once  only,  and  that  when  in  scowling  bravado 
Gordon  had  gotten  down  on  his  knees  to  look  un- 
der the  table  in  the  corner,  had  his  hands  left  the 
knob;  and  then  but  for  a  second.  With  the  other 
again  on  his  feet,  with  the  scowling,  menacing  face 
again  turned  upon  him  his  courage  had  ebbed, 
like  a  rain-born  torrent  when  the  storm  is  past. 
Once  more  in  that  long  series  of  defeats  of  the 
last  year  he  was  beaten  and  he  knew  he  was  beaten. 
Hot  as  ever  burned  his  anger,  his  mortal  insult; 
but  deeper  than  this,  more  overwhelming,  was  the 
renewed  knowledge  of  his  own  incapacity.  This 
it  was  he  felt  most  now,  this  that  made  every  other 
consideration  in  life,  even  the  sneering  face  of  the 
intruder,  paltry  and  of  little  moment.  Overwhelm- 
ing, stifling,  the  knowledge  closed  him  in,  suffocated 
him.  Of  a  sudden  his  grip  on  the  door  handle 
loosened — loosened  though  he  tried  his  utmost  to 
retain  his  grip.  Simultaneously  the  room,  the  earth 
without  the  open  door,  whirled  before  his  eyes, 
darkened.  Consciousness  lapsed. 

How  long  that  black  interim  lasted  he  had  no  way 
of  knowing.  Seemingly  to  him  it  was  long.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  it  was  probably  only  a  minute,  min- 
utes at  the  most.  When  again  he  was  conscious 
that  a  material  world  existed  it  was  with  an  im- 
pression of  dire  confusion.  The  real  and  the  un- 
real mingling  he  fancied  himself  the  centre  of  a 


ioo  The  Quest  Eternal 

street  fight — a  brawl  the  nature  of  which  he 
was  ignorant.  He  only  knew  that  it  had  come 
to  pass,  that  he  was  prostrate,  helpless,  that 
about  him  were  trampling  feet,  that  over  him 
was  a  great  struggling,  swaying  body,  that  in  his 
ears  was  the  continuous  sound  of  a  mighty  voice, 
obscenely  profane.  This  for  a  moment  his  impres- 
sion, his  conviction;  then  of  a  sudden,  with  a  flash 
of  swiftly  returning  consciousness,  he  was  wide 
awake.  Another  second  thereafter  he  lay  so,  as 
he  had  dropped,  on  the  floor,  unbelieving  the  testi- 
mony of  his  eyes. 

And  small  wonder;  for  within  that  narrow  room, 
in  the  brief  interim  of  his  unconsciousness,  a  pecu- 
liar thing  had  come  to  pass,  a  drama  that  would 
have  been  humorous  had  not  the  principals  therein 
been  so  deadly  in  earnest.  For,  himself  a  spectator, 
he  was  in  the  midst  of  battle  none  the  less  real  be- 
cause one  belligerent  was  a  giant  and  the  other  a 
pygmy.  How  it  had  come  about  he  could  not 
know,  he  could  only  guess;  but  what  he  saw  was 
this:  stumbling  erect,  writhing,  almost  helpless 
was  his  conqueror  of  a  few  minutes  ago — Gordon 
the  intruder.  Fair  between  his  legs,  locked  in  that 
giant  crotch,  an  arm  encircling  either  pillar  and 
closed  like  grim  death,  was  his  own  son — Robert 
McLeod.  He  still  had  on  the  encircling  night- 
gown, swishing  with  every  movement  of  his  big 
captive  and  adding  to  the  impediment.  His  hands 


The  Giant  and  the  Pygmy        101 

and  feet  were  hid,  seemingly  fastened  to  the  other 
like  claws.  His  face  at  first  too  was  hid;  but  of  a 
sudden  McLeod  saw  it,  very  white  and  unchildlike, 
the  big  blue  eyes  thereof  almost  black.  Then  again 
like  a  flash  it  was  hid  from  view  and  simultaneously 
a  fresh  burst  of  oaths  filled  the  room.  That  sec- 
ond McLeod  understood.  Not  merely  passive, 
merely  a  dead  weight  was  that  small  demon  whose 
face  he  had  seen.  He  was  biting  with  all  the  fero- 
city of  a  lesser  animal  struggling  for  life,  of  a 
human  being  whose  every  drop  of  fighting  blood 
was  aroused. 

The  audacity,  the  fearlessness  of  the  example  was 
contagious.  From  a  thing  beaten  and  cowed 
McLeod  felt  himself  transformed  with  miracu- 
lous suddenness  into  a  participant,  an  aggressor. 
With  a  bound  he  was  upon  his  feet,  his  fists 
clenched,  the  hate  of  the  worm  turned  in  his  soul. 
Without  success  the  big  captive  was  struggling  to 
be  free,  to  get  a  grip  on  the  menace  between  his 
legs.  To  do  so  he  bent  far  over  and  it  was  the  new- 
comer's chance.  With  all  his  force  he  struck  with 
his  fist  straight  at  that  cursing  face,  hit  it  fair.  The 
impact  was  intoxication,  oblivion.  Again  and  again 
he  struck  out,  aimlessly  now,  more  often  missing 
than  striking  true,  like  a  boy  in  his  first  battle.  The 
lust  of  combat  gripped  him :  the  feel  of  a  conqueror 
was  his.  As  Gordon  stumbled  back  in  retreat  he 
followed.  They  reached  the  doorway — and  still 


102  The  Quest  Eternal 

he  followed.  The  enemy  was  beaten  now,  seeking 
only  escape  and  his  temples  throbbed  at  the  knowl- 
edge. 

"Let  go,  Bob,"  he  directed  breathlessly,  "he's 
got  enough.  Let  him  go,"  and  as  in  the  doorway 
itself  the  other  man  finally  broke  free,  McLeod's 
bent  shoulders  squared  in  the  magnanimity  of  vic- 
tory. 

"Out  of  this  quick,  or — or " 

But  Gordon  was  gone,  the  corner  of  the  house 
around  which  he  had  fled  hiding  him  from  view. 

A  moment  McLeod  stood  there  so,  one  hand  sup- 
porting himself  on  the  casement,  the  morning  sun 
shining  full  on  his  face,  the  glow  of  combat  still 
upon  him;  then,  swiftly  as  ever  to  him  came  the 
reaction  from  exaltation,  reality  returned.  Bit  by 
bit  the  glow  left  his  face.  His  tense  muscles  re- 
laxed. Of  a  sudden  he  knew  himself  for  the  char- 
latan he  was,  the  mock  hero  of  opera-bouffe. 

"Bob—"  he  hesitated. 

No  answer. 

"Bob—"  repeated. 

Still  no  answer. 

Despite  the  man's  will  his  colour  mounted — with 
the  shame  of  a  boy  caught  red-handed  pilfering  he 
turned  to  meet  his  son's  eyes. 

But  not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen.  Like  Gordon  him- 
self, the  boy  too  was  gone. 

***** 


The  Giant  and  the  Pygmy        103 

"Papa !"  It  was  night  at  last,  night  following  a 
long,  long  day  for  three  people  whose  lives  were 
approaching  a  climax.  "Papa,  haven't  you  ever 
wished  you  had  another  child,  a  girl?" 

McLeod  was  sitting  in  the  doorway,  his  bent 
shoulders  touching  the  frame  at  a  single  spot  like 
a  bow,  his  great  hands  locked  over  his  knees.  He 
did  not  glance  up  at  the  question,  apparently  at 
first  he  did  not  hear.  At  last,  however,  he  stirred 
preparatorily.  He  knew  his  son  too  well  not  to  do 
so.  "Why?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I  just  wanted  to  know."  The  small  boy  was 
curled  up  in  a  heap  opposite,  all  but  his  misshapen 
foot,  which  was  thrust  out  awkwardly  before  him. 
"Most  people  do  have  more  than  one  child.  Mr. 
Swenson  you  know  has  six.  Don't  you  wish  some- 
times you  had  a  daughter?" 

McLeod  stirred  restlessly,  after  the  manner  of 
one  who  is  physically  too  weary  to  answer. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  reluctantly.  "I  never 
think  about  it." 

"Won't  you  do  so  now,  then,  and  tell  me?"  per- 
sisted the  boy. 

Again  the  man's  silence  spoke  his  disapproval — 
and  again  at  last  he  acquiesced. 

"Why  should  I  want  a  daughter?"  he  queried  in 
turn  unwillingly. 

"For  a  lot  of  reasons,"  quickly.  "To  run  er- 
rands, and  make  garden,  and  laugh,  and  sing."  A 


104  The  Quest  Eternal 

halt  for  breath.  "And  when  she  got  older  to  keep 
house  and  cook  and — do  a  lot  of  things." 

McLeod  made  no  comment. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  a  daughter  to  do  that, 
papa?" 

"You  do  most  of  it  for  me,  don't  you?"  parried 
the  man. 

"Some,  yes.  But  I  can't  run  very  fast  you  know. 
I'm  lame  and  she — wouldn't  be  lame.  She'd  be 
pretty  to  look  at  too,  papa.  She'd  walk  straight  and 
when  you  went  to  town  or  anywhere  you  wouldn't 
need  to  be  ashamed  of  her."  As  he  drew  the 
imaginary  picture  the  boy  had  sat  up  straighter  and 
straighten  In  sympathy  his  eyes  had  brightened 
until  they  fairly  glowed.  "Wouldn't  you  like  such 
a  daughter  as  that?"  he  repeated. 

Countering,  defensive,  McLeod  shifted.  With  an 
effort  his  eyes  met  those  of  his  son. 

"What  makes  you  fancy  I'm  ashamed  of  you?" 
he  asked  almost  harshly. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  me,  papa?"  directly. 

Impaled  on  his  own  query,  unable  to  lie  in  the  face 
of  that  candid  gaze,  McLeod  hesitated.  Against 
his  will  his  colour  rose. 

"It  isn't  your  fault  that  you're  lame,"  he  di- 
gressed. 

"Yes,  I  now  that,  but  just  the  same  it  annoys  you." 
On  the  surface  the  comment  was  matter  of  fact, 
but  beneath  was  a  definite  purpose — which  was 


The  Giant  and  the  Pygmy        105 

being  driven  definitely  home.  "I  think  you'd  get 
so  you'd  like  a  daughter  if  you  had  one.  You'd  be 
proud  of  her." 

Again  McLeod  said  nothing.  Ordinarily  slow  of 
brain  the  apathy  of  physical  weariness  made  him 
slower  than  usual.  He  merely  returned  to  his 
original  position,  staring  blankly  out  into  the  star- 
light. 

For  a  moment  the  boy  too  was  silent,  gazing  at  his 
father  with  the  relentless  intensity  of  one  prema- 
turely old  in  knowledge  of  life.  But  for  a  moment 
only.  Then  deliberately,  methodically  he  took  up 
the  inquisition  from  the  point  at  which  it  had  been 
dropped. 

"Haven't  you  thought  yet,  papa?"  he  asked. 

In  genuine  irritation  this  time  the  man  turned  in 
his  place.  Something  near  a  curse  formed  on  his 
lips;  then,  ere  it  was  spoken,  as  suddenly  died. 
There  was  no  fear  in  the  face  that  met  his  so 
steadily. 

"Why  do  you  ask,  Bob?"  he  returned  at  last. 

"Because  I've  thought  often  you  wished  so — and 
I'd  like  to  know." 

"And  why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  papa,  when  you  answer  me." 

But  even  yet  McLeod  could  not  find  words.  The 
old,  old  hesitation,  lack  of  self-confidence  at  time  of 
crisis  prevented.  That  the  wish  upermost  in  his 
mind,  the  wish  that  had  followed  him  day  and 


io6  The  Quest  Eternal 

night  for  years,  had  been  spoken  he  could  not  deny ; 
yet  to  speak  it  openly,  most  of  all  to  admit  it  to  this 
small  human  who  never  forgot 

"I'm  waiting,  papa,"  pressed  the  boy. 

To  hesitate  longer  was  impossible.  To  lie  with 
those  steady  eyes  looking  him  through  impossible 
likewise. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  Then  as  realisation  of  the 
admission  swept  over  him  his  own  eyes  dropped. 
"God  help  me,  yes,"  he  repeated. 

For  an  instant  they  both  sat  so,  within  arm's 
reach  but  very,  very  far  apart.  Then  quietly, 
steadily  the  boy  got  to  his  feet. 

"I  thought  so,  papa,"  he  said.  Standing  so,  very 
straight,  very  quiet  he  looked  down  at  the  huddled 
figure  below.  "I'll  tell  you  now,  if  you  wish,  why 
I  wanted  to  know.  Do  you  wish  me  to,  papa?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man. 

"It  was  because  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  daughter 
in  my  place." 

Wondering,  believing  almost  the  impossible,  the 
man  glanced  up.  That  something,  something  un- 
expected, was  about  to  occur  he  could  not  doubt; 
but  what  it  was  even  yet  he  had  not  the  slightest 
inkling.  He  looked  at  the  small  silent  figure  pecu- 
liarly, a  question  in  his  gaze. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Bob?"  he  demanded. 

"I  meant  what  I  said,  papa,  exactly.  I'm  a 
cripple  and — and  don't  count.  I'm  going  to  give 


The  Giant  and  the  Pygmy        107 

you  a  daughter  in  my  place."  Just  for  a  second 
he  halted,  tragic  in  his  earnestness  and  his  lack  of 
pose;  then  steadily  he  turned  until  he  was  facing 
the  darkened  doorway  leading  to  the  lean-to. 
"Peg!"  he  called. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer,  but  out  of  the 
darkness  came  a  suggestion  of  some  one  moving. 

"Peg,"  he  repeated  in  the  same  voice,  "come." 

This  time  there  was  response.  From  out  the  door- 
way, timidly,  almost  fearfully,  there  came  the  figure 
of  a  small  brown  girl;  a  figure  that  halted  in  the 
light,  and  advanced  a  step,  and  again  halted  ready 
to  flee. 

"Come,  Peg,"  repeated  the  boy  for  the  last  time. 
"Don't  be  afraid.  You're  to  stay."  Deliberately 
as  he  had  done  everything  he  took  her  hand  and  led 
her  forward,  until  she  stood  in  the  exact  place  he 
had  himself  before  occupied.  "You  are  to  stay — 
always."  Then,  ere  the  man  had  recovered  from 
his  surprise,  ere  another  word  had  been  spoken, 
before  either  of  the  other  two  realised  what  he  had 
done,  he  released  her  hand  and  vanished  out  of 
doors  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    SUGGESTION   OF    FUTURE 

BIT  by  bit  early  summer  wore  on.  For  long  the 
wheat  fields  had  been  green — green  with  an  inten- 
sity which  was  its  own  simile.  But  previously, 
side  by  side  with  them,  separating,  alternating,  like 
miniature  states  upon  the  map  of  a  continent,  were 
patches  of  dark  brown :  the  darker  and  browner  far 
by  contrast.  Yet  not  by  method  was  this  so. 
Chance  it  was  that  guided,  chance  and  the  universal 
law  of  crop  rotation.  For  corn  fields  of  the  future 
lay  just  beneath  that  evenly  harrowed  mono- 
chrome; corn  fields  that  at  the  time  Peg  Stanton 
arrived  on  the  scene  had  barely  begun  to  germinate. 
But  now,  with  the  passing  of  early  summer,  all  this 
had  altered.  Simultaneously,  almost,  throughout 
the  broad  prairie  country  there  had  appeared  upon 
the  brown  blots  a  suggestion  of  colour.  Not  os- 
tentatiously, but  stealthily,  they  had  come;  so 
stealthily  that  though  watched  unceasingly  day  and 
night,  the  moment  of  arrival  could  not  have  been 
told.  Yet,  having  come,  they  grew  daily,  hourly; 
and  as  they  did  so,  upon  the  dark  background, 
again,  simultaneously,  all  about,  geometrical  figures 
came  into  being.  For  each  tiny  dot  of  colour  was 


A  Suggestion  of  Future  109 

in  line  with  each  other  tiny  dot;  checked  with  un- 
failing accuracy,  with  mechanical  precision.  Merely 
a  diagram,  an  inanimate  drawing  to  illustrate  a 
principle  in  the  abstract,  they  seemed  at  first.  But 
by  day  as  they  grew  this  impression  in  turn  faded. 
Marvellous  to  one  who  knew  not  the  energy  of  the 
sun  in  those  short  northern  summers,  that  growth 
would  have  seemed.  Under  it,  as  by  magic,  the 
suggestion  of  geometrical  figures  vanished.  Under 
it  likewise  the  map  of  a  continent  in  miniature  dis- 
appeared. No  longer  was  the  earth  mottled  brown 
and  green,  but  of  the  latter,  universal  from  horizon 
to  horizon.  Look  where  one  might  on  the  broad 
surface  of  prairie  and  two  colours,  and  two  alone, 
were  visible.  Beneath  the  watcher's  feet,  all  about, 
was  the  sea  of  green.  Overhead,  likewise  all  en- 
folding, all  encompassing,  was  the  arch  of  blue. 
Together  they  comprised  the  universe.  Where 
they  met  no  man  could  tell.  Uniting  them,  divid- 
ing them,  far  in  the  infinite  distance,  was  a  vague 
intangible  haze;  but  where  it  began  to  shade  blue 
or  to  shade  green  no  man  could  tell.  For  it  was 
summer  now,  no  longer  early  summer  nor  yet  mid- 
summer, but  summer  itself — and  this  was  the  token 
by  which  it  was  known. 

Thus  time  passed;  a  week  so,  two  perhaps — and 
again  in  the  change  of  seasons  a  new  phenomenon 
overspread  the  face  of  earth.  Like  the  change  of 
the  corn  fields  from  brown  to  green  its  approach 


iio  The  Quest  Eternal 

was  stealthy ;  as  stealthy  and  irresistible  as  fate  the 
inexorable.  Watching,  expectant,  the  observer  first 
caught  a  suggestion  of  the  alteration  on  the  billowy 
mass  of  the  wheat  fields.  Looking  at  them  en  masse 
their  colour  was  less  vivid  than  of  yore;  duller, 
lighter,  as  though  faded  beneath  the  sun's  level 
rays.  At  first  this  was  a  mere  suggestion,  an  altera- 
tion too  slight  to  prove  by  other  test  than  memory 
alone.  Yet  that  there  was  change,  though  he  could 
not  prove  the  fact,  the  watcher  knew.  Once  more 
days  dragged  by,  sultry  days,  when  the  breath  of 
prairie  ceased  to  stir  and  the  nights  were  so  warm 
that  dew  refused  to  gather.  And  all  the  time  the 
hand  of  nature  was  busily  at  work  spreading  the  new 
tone,  that  was  unmistakable  now,  with  prodigal 
strokes.  Unbelievably  swiftly  the  work  progressed 
unceasingly,  until  before  the  watcher's  eyes  the 
miracle  was  complete.  For  again  upon  the  surface 
of  the  plain  the  continental  map  with  blocks  of 
colour  alternating  had  come  into  being.  Only  now 
the  tint  of  the  individual  states  was  reversed. 
Where  before  was  the  brown  of  corn  fields  were 
now  vivid  unbroken  blots  of  green;  and  separating 
them,  filling  in  the  interstices,  was  not  brown  but 
gold — the  shading  of  the  wheat  ripened  at  last  for 
the  harvest. 

And  coincident  with  its  arrival  appeared  other 
phenomena  typical  of  the  new  season.  Earth  was 
no  longer  silent  now.  Instead,  a  myriad  tiny  voices 


A  Suggestion  of  Future  1 1 1 

had  come  into  being ;  born  as  was  the  alteration  of 
colour,  of  heat  universal.  By  day  the  voice  of  the 
cicada  purred  and  rasped  and  droned  in  mighty 
unceasing  chorus.  Only  at  nightfall  the  concert 
ceased  and  then  to  be  taken  up  by  other  voices, 
equally  countless,  equally  tireless:  the  rasp  and 
drone  and  boom  of  crickets  that  filled  in  every 
moment  of  the  short  hours  of  sleep  and  uncon- 
sciously merged  at  break  of  day  into  the  old-new 
symphony  of  the  cicada  orchestra  resumed.  Verily 
by  its  own  token  was  each  season  known.  As  the 
eye  had  identified  summer,  now  the  ear  marked 
midsummer  its  successor.  For  the  season  of  teem- 
ing insect  life  had  come;  the  season  when  night  and 
day  were  alike  its  playtime,  its  paradise ;  the  season 
when  perhaps  of  all  it  is  best  to  be  alive;  the  brief 
space  ere  the  pendulum  of  time  halts  on  its  return 
cycle  toward  winter's  frost:  not  summer  but  mid- 
summer whose  symbol  is  life  ubiquitous. 

Thus  in  her  laboratory,  nature,  the  master  work- 
man, delved;  and  beneath  her,  man,  her  imitator, 
followed  her  lead.  In  winter  she  toiled  not  at  all 
but  rested;  and  the  prairie  farmer,  her  most  inti- 
mate disciple,  rested  likewise.  With  the  coming 
of  spring  and  thawing  suns,  the  new  cycle  was  re- 
sumed; and  reluctantly  the  imitator,  man,  re- 
sponded. At  first  her  hours  of  labour  were  but  few 
in  a  day;  and  those  of  man  were  short  likewise. 
Gradually  day  by  day  as  frost  retreated  the  daily 


112  The  Quest  Eternal 

task  augmented;  and  equally  gradually  man's  hours 
of  work  lengthened  to  conform.  Thus  began  the 
speeding  up,  growing  swifter  and  swifter,  more 
and  more  intense,  as  week  by  week  the  sun  climbed 
toward  the  zenith.  Steadily  the  hours  of  labour 
encroached  upon  the  hours  of  rest.  From  being  far 
in  the  minority  they  grew  equal,  passed  the  boun- 
dary and  went  on:  twelve,  fourteen,  sixteen, 
eighteen  at  last,  out  of  the  twenty-four.  To  the 
limit  of  physical  endurance  they  went:  endurance 
of  man  and  of  beast.  Beyond  this  point,  relentless 
as  the  necessity  seemed,  relentlessly  as  the  pace- 
maker nature  led  the  way,  they  could  not  go. 
Ripening  grain  waited  not  for  man;  but  man  could 
only  work  his  limit.  And  these  passing  days  of 
midsummer  were  his  limit.  In  them  the  gradual 
process  of  speeding  up  reached  its  climax.  From 
sun  to  sun  and  beyond,  prairie  man  and  woman  and 
child  were  in  motion.  They  barely  paused  for 
meals.  They  paused  not  at  all  to  think.  Like  the 
self-binders  whose  steady  purr  drowned  the  cicada 
chorus  surrounding,  they  themselves  seemed  mere 
animate  machines  bent  upon  the  single  purpose  of 
gathering  nature's  gift;  gathering  it  while  it  was 
offered,  gathering  with  feverish  haste  and  in  the 
knowledge  that  otherwise  the  boon  would  be 
swiftly  withdrawn.  For,  like  time,  the  harvest 
halted  not  to  suit  the  pleasure  of  man  her  slave. 
Prodigal  as  was  the  liberality  of  the  offer  on 


A  Suggestion  of  Future  113 

prairie  loam  it  was  made  but  once.  If  not  accepted 
it  was  all  one  with  the  giver.  She  merely  took 
back  her  own,  returned  it  to  its  elements  and  went 
on  her  placid  way  heedless  of  the  petitions  of  the 
dilatory  or  the  slothful;  heedless  of  all  save  the 
unalterable  law  of  seedtime  and  of  harvest.  As 
life  ubiquitous  was  the  token  of  midsummer  this 
was  its  lesson :  one  of  humility,  of  tacit  trust  and  of 
unquestioning  conformity.  "Accept,  little  one, 
while  you  may,"  she  seemed  to  say.  "Fill  your 
storehouses  while  you  can.  For  I  am  passing,  tiny 
one,  passing  swiftly — and  the  time  is  long  ere  I 
shall  again  return." 


"Bob,  are  you  awake  yet?" 

The  time  was  midsummer,  at  the  height  of  the 
speeding;  the  place  a  rough  porch,  open  above  to 
the  sky  and  built  out  to  the  east  from  the  McLeod 
farmhouse;  the  hour  near  midnight. 

"Yes,  Peg." 

Silence  save  for  the  voices  of  the  night :  the  cease- 
less rasping  cricket  chorus.  At  last  a  creaking  of 
the  loosely-nailed  boards  beneath  the  thin  blanket 
upon  which  the  two  children  were  lying,  marked  a 
restless  shifting  of  position. 

"It's  so  hot,  Bob,  I  can't  sleep.  I  can  hardly 
breathe." 

"Keep  still  and  after  a  bit  you'll  be  sleepy  and  for- 


H4  The  Quest  Eternal 

get  it.  Anyway,  it'll  be  cooler  soon,  toward  morn- 
ing." 

Silence  again ;  then  the  beginning  of  conversation 
to  definite  purpose. 

"Why  aren't  you  asleep,  then,  Bob?  You've  been 
still." 

"I'm  tired  and — "  a  pause,  then  the  truth — "and 
my  foot  hurts  a  bit." 

Swiftly,  femininely  responsive,  the  small  girl 
turned.  A  tiny  hand  was  laid  sympathetically  on 
the  other's  cheek. 

"It's  too  bad  for  you  to  have  to  walk  so  much.  I 
think  it's  a  shame." 

"Some  one  has  to  carry  the  men  water,  and  run 
errands,  and  do  chores.  Besides,  every  one  is  tired 
this  time  of  year." 

"I  ain't  tired — only  hot." 

"I  meant  every  one  who  isn't  a  girl." 

The  one  who  was  a  girl  cogitated.  The  tiny  hand 
stroked  softly  on  the  cheek  beneath. 

"If  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  work  so,"  she  an- 
nounced at  last.  "I'd  play  I  was  sick  or — or  some- 
thing." 

"No  you  wouldn't,  Peg." 

"Yes  I  would,  too." 

"No." 

Silence  for  the  second  time. 

"Bob " 

"Yes." 


A  Suggestion  of  Future          115 

"When  are  you  going  away  to  get  your  foot 
fixed?" 

It  was  an  oft-repeated  query,  but  the  boy  showed 
no  annoyance. 

"As  soon  as  papa  can  get  the  money.  He's  sav- 
ing for  it  now." 

"The  coming  winter?" 

"I  hardly  suppose  so." 

"A  year  from  then?" 

"Perhaps." 

Silence  for  the  third  time  save  for  a  steady  rest- 
less pat  of  one  stockinged  foot  against  the  thinly 
covered  boards. 

"Bob " 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  going  to  stay  here  always?" 

"I  don't  know,  Peg.    Always  is  a  long  time." 

"I  don't  mean  you  to  say  for  truly.  I  just  want  to 
know  what  you  expect.  Do  you  want  to  raise  corn 
and  wheat  and  radishes  always?" 

"No." 

"What  do  you  want  to  do,  Bob?" 

The  boy  looked  straight  up  at  the  stars  shining 
overhead. 

"Papa  was  a  doctor  once.  I  think  I'd  like  to  be  a 
doctor  too." 

"And  straighten  folks'  crooked  feet — and  such?" 

"Yes." 


1 1 6  The  Quest  Eternal 

"That  would  be  nice.  I'd  like  to  have  you  be  a 
doctor,  Bob." 

"Rasp,  rasp,  rasp,"  went  the  cricket  chorus; 
"rasp,  rasp,  rasp,"  monotonously,  unceasingly. 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you,  Bob,  what  I'm  going  to  do 
sometime,  when  I  grow  up?" 

"I  don't  remember  that  you  ever  did." 

"Would  you  like  to  know?" 

"Yes." 

"Awfully  much?" 

"Awfully  much." 

"You  won't  ever  tell  any  one  unless  I  let  you?" 

"No." 

"Or  even  make  fun  of  me  for  telling?" 

"Never,  Peg." 

The  small  girl  paused  in  instinctive  art,  in  fit  pre- 
lude to  the  great  revelation. 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  singer,  Bob." 

No  comment. 

"I  don't  mean  a  little  singer  in  Sunday  schools  and 
things,  but  a  big  singer,  a  'primmy  donny.' ' 

Still  no  comment. 

A  moment  there  was  silence,  a  moment  that  to  the 
tiny  girl  seemed  very,  very  long.  Then  with  a  sud- 
den movement  she  drew  away  swiftly,  with  patent 
meaning. 

"I  don't  think  I  like  you,  Bob,"  announced  a  voice 
very  cold  and  hard. 

"Peg!" 


A  Suggestion  of  Future  117 

"You  think  that  I'm  just  talking — that  I  can't 
sing — that  I  never  can  sing." 

"Peg!" 

"You  do.    You  know  you  do." 

"Peggy!" 

This  time  it  was  the  girl  who  said  nothing. 

"You  know  I  think  you  can  do  anything,  Peg." 

A  moment  longer  the  tiny  figure  lay  curled  up 
apart,  but  anger  was  melting  swiftly.  At  last  the 
boards  creaked  anew  and  a  timid,  hesitating  hand 
touched  the  lad's  cheek  softly. 

"'Scuse  me,  Bob.    I  didn't  mean  to  be  bad." 

The  boy  wasted  no  words  on  the  superfluous. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Peg." 

But  the  moment  for  revelation  arrived,  the  small 
girl  became  suddenly  diffident. 

"You'd  think  I  was  just  storying  if  I  did,"  she 
hesitated. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.    You  never  story." 

"Maybe  I  did  before  you  knew  me." 

"No,  never,"  stoutly. 

The  little  girl  drew  a  long  breath.  It's  pleasant 
to  be  appreciated  even  when  one  is  a  child. 

"I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  then."  In  the  darkness 
she  tried  to  look  the  boy  in  the  face,  to  measure  to 
the  full  the  depth  of  the  other's  surprise.  "I  met  a 
primmy  donny  once." 

Silence. 


1 1 8  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Maybe  you  don't  know  what  a  primmy  donny 
is,"  hesitatingly. 

"I  don't." 

"It's  a  grand  lady  with  jewels  and  things  who 
sings." 

"Oh!"    This  time  the  interest  was  satisfactory. 

"I  never  told  you  before,  but  there  was  one  thing 
the  Gordons,  the  folks  I  ran  away  from,  always 
made  me  do  for  a  living.  They  were  forever  mov- 
ing, and  whenever  they  got  to  a  big  town  Ma  Gor- 
don would  dress  up  in  old  musty  black  and  paint 
lines  on  her  face  to  make  her  look  old  and  rub  snuff 
in  her  eyes  so  they'd  be  red,  and  go  begging.  She'd 
be  a  widow  and  I'd  go  with  her  as  an  orphan,  to 
sing.  She'd  pick  out  a  good  place  where  lots  of 
folks  went  by  and  start  me  at  it;  and  then  when 
enough  people  stopped  she'd  take  up  a  collection." 
Of  a  sudden  the  story  ceased  and  the  speaker  peered 
through  the  dark  at  the  other's  face. 

"You  listening,  Bob?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  was  singing  one  day  as  usual.  It  was 
late  in  the  fall  and  cold — I  was  shivering  so  my 
teeth  chattered;  but  a  crowd  had  stopped  to  listen 
and  I  was  doing  my  best.  I  was  nearly  through,  it 
was  almost  noon,  and  Ma  Gordon  always  stopped 
then  to  get  her  dinner,  and  the  street  was  full  of 
carriages;  when  of  a  sudden  I  saw  one  stop.  I 
didn't  pay  much  attention,  for  folks  often  did  that; 


A  Suggestion  of  Future  119 

but  when  I  finished  I  noticed  that  this  one  didn't 
go  on.  I  looked  then  to  see  what  was  the  matter, 
and — and  what  do  you  suppose  happened,  Bob?" 

"I  don't  know,  Peg." 

"A  lady,  the  one  in  the  carriage,  motioned  to  me. 
I  thought  she  wanted  to  give  me  something  and  sa 
(Ma  Gordon  was  counting  the  money  she'd  gotten 
already)  I  went  out  into  the  street  myself.  The 
lady  opened  the  carriage  door  and  was  waiting  for 
me,  and  without  thinking  I  put  in  my  hand." 

For  the  second  time  the  story  halted  and,  could 
the  boy  have  seen,  he  would  hardly  have  recognised 
his  small  companion  in  the  sudden  alteration  she 
had  undergone. 

"Then  things  happened  awful  fast,  Bob;  so  fast 
I  can  hardly  tell  about  it.  For  she  didn't  want  to 
give  me  anything  at  all;  at  least,  not  in  that  way. 
Instead  she  just  reached  right  out  and  caught  me, 
and  held  me  fast  and  began  talking.  I  can't  tell 
you  all  she  said.  I  was  too  surprised  and  she  was 
too  fine  in  all  her  furs  and  diamonds  and  things; 
but  in  a  minute  I  understood  what  she  wanted — and 
what  do  you  suppose  that  was,  Bob?" 

"Tell  me,  Peg." 

"She  wanted  to  take  me  with  her.  She  did, 
honest.  She  wanted  to  do  it  right  then.  Ma  Gor- 
don had  come  up  by  this  time,  she'd  'spicioned 
something  and  wanted  to  hear,  and  the  lady  began 
talking  to  her.  She  said  I  could  sing  wonderful. 


120  The  Quest  Eternal 

She  told  her  name,  Madame  Ziska  she  said  it  was, 
and  her  address.  She  said  she  had  no  children  of 
her  own  and  that  she'd  take  me  and  bring  me  up 
and  teach  me.  I  couldn't  say  anything  at  first  and 
Ma  Gordon  didn't  neither,  but  I  could  see  her  face 
getting  hard  and  sharp.  The  lady  saw  it  too,  I 
guess,  and  talked  faster  and  faster.  She  said  she'd 
adopt  me  as  her  own  girl,  that  folks  often  did  that, 
and  she  offered  money  to  let  me  go.  She  said  she'd 
pay  it  right  then  and  there.  She  wasn't  talking  to 
me  at  all  then,  but  right  past  me,  and  I  knew  with- 
out looking  myself  why  she  had  spoken  of  money 
and  why  she  was  talking  so  fast.  Quite  a  crowd 
had  gathered  by  this  time.  I  could  hear  them 
shuffling  their  feet  in  the  cold;  but  I'd  forgotten 
all  about  it  myself.  I'd  forgotten  everything.  I 
just  stood  there  listening  and  holding  my  breath 
and  then — then — something  happened.  All  at 
once  the  lady  bent  over  and  looked  me  square  in 
the  eyes." 

"What's  your  name,  quick,  and  where  do  you 
live?"  she  asked. 

"Peg  Stanton,  I  said,  and — "  but  I  couldn't  say 
any  more.  Just  then  a  hand  went  over  my  mouth. 
Some  one — I  s'pose  it  was  Ma  Gordon  and  how  I 
hated  her — pulled  the  cap  I  had  on  down  over  my 
eyes.  That  was  the  last  I  knew.  I  remember  I 
yelled  and  the  crowd  made  a  fuss ;  I  could  feel  them 
bumping  me,  and  some  one  called  'Police.'  But 


A  Suggestion  of  Future  121 

all  the  time  I  was  being  dragged  away,  faster  than 
I  could  walk ;  and — and  the  next  thing  I  saw  I  was 
a  block  away  with  Pa  Gordon  on  one  side  and  Ma 
Gordon  on  the  other  and  going  in  a  direction  op- 
posite from  the  way  in  which  we  had  come,  and  as 
fast  as  they  could  go.  I  tried  to  scream  again,  but 
they  stuffed  the  cap  in  my  mouth  and  told  me  if  I 
made  a  noise  they'd  wait  until  night  and  throw  me 
in  the  river.  And — and  that's  all  except  that  once 
we  passed  a  tall  billboard  on  a  vacant  lot  and  on  it, 
in  great  big  letters,  was  the  name  the  lady  had 
told  me  was  hers,  Madame  Ziska,  just  that  alone; 
and  before  it,  in  smaller  letters,  was  that  other 
word  I  told  you — primmy  donny." 

The  story  ceased  and  silence  fell;  silence  with  its 
undertone  of  teeming  insect  life;  silence  that  was 
such  only  by  comparison.  A  minute  perhaps  they 
lay  so,  the  little  girl  breathing  hard,  one  stockinged 
foot  beating  unconsciously  on  the  board  beneath, 
the  boy  as  motionless  as  death.  Then  of  a  sudden, 
in  characteristic  alteration,  the  small  woman 
aroused.  The  present  returned.  A  moment  she  in- 
spected the  figure  at  her  side. 

"Bob,"  she  reproached,  "I  believe  you're  asleep." 

Still  not  a  motion. 

"No,  Peg." 

"Why  don't  you  say  something,  then?" 

"I've  been  thinking." 

"Thinking  what?" 


122  The  Quest  Eternal 

No  answer. 

"What  were  you  thinking,  Bob?" 

"Never  mind,  Peg." 

"But  I  want  to  know,"  insistently. 

Still  no  answer. 

"Bob,  tell  me." 

"I  was  thinking  that  it  might  be  longer  than  I 
planned  before  I  went  away  to  become  a  doctor, 
Peg." 

The  small  girl  groped.  Light  failed  to  come — 
then. 

"I  don't  understand,  Bob." 

"Never  mind,"  quickly.     "Go  to  sleep." 

"But  tell  me  what  you  mean,  Bob." 

"No.  It's  pretty  near  morning  and  I'm — tired. 
Go  to  sleep." 

For  minutes  following  there  was  silence;  but  this 
time  the  girl  too  was  thinking.  At  last  came  a  faint 
trace  of  understanding  that  grew  momentarily  into 
conviction. 

"Bob !"  the  voice  was  tense  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment. 

No  answer. 

"Bob !"  do  you  mean  that  I'm  to  go  away  instead, 
that  I — "  The  suggestion  was  too  much  for  lan- 
guage. 

But  though  the  boy  lay  there  with  wide  open  eyes 
staring  up  into  the  night,  he  said  never  a  word. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEFEAT 

FAR  out  on  the  open  prairie,  on  the  corner  of  a 
36th  section,  where  four  roads  met,  a  half  mile 
from  the  nearest  residence,  stood  the  district  school- 
house.  Not  a  tree  kept  it  company,  not  a  shrub 
nor  a  bush.  Beyond  the  barb-wire  fence  which  sur- 
rounded it  not  one  interfered  to  obstruct  the  view 
until  the  farm  of  Martin  Swenson  was  reached. 
Just  outside  the  fence  of  six  taut  wires  was  a  fire- 
break, freshly  ploughed,  and  as  broad  as  the  right 
of  way  to  a  public  road.  Within  this  quadrangle 
was  the  schoolhouse  itself;  one  time  white  but  now 
weathered  grey,  its  cornice  dotted  with  irregular 
holes  through  which  a  man  could  thrust  his  fist 
and  which  marked  the  entrance  to  as  many  wood- 
peckers' nests;  its  four  windows,  two  to  the  side, 
staring  out  like  the  widely  curious  eyes  of  the  small 
urchins  who  gathered  within.  In  the  yard  sur- 
rounding, tramped  bald  and  hard  as  a  village  street 
by  many  active  feet,  was  the  inevitable  flag-pole 
built  of  cottonwoods  spliced  and  bolted,  a  shed  of 
poles  and  thatch  which  sheltered  the  ponies  of  the 
most  distant  scholars,  and,  last  of  all,  a  dug  well 
with  windlass  and  buckets.  Save  one  other  not  an 


124  The  Quest  Eternal 

obstruction  the  height  of  a  man's  hand  lifted  above 
the  earth;  yet  to  tell  a  tale  of  the  past,  a  tale  oft 
repeated  throughout  the  land  where  watercourses 
were  far  between  and  from  frost  to  snow  fire  once 
started  raced  as  the  wind,  none  save  this  one  was 
necessary.  Simple  evidence  it  was,  simple  as  a 
printed  page,  as  the  primer  of  youth:  four  low 
walls  there  were  in  the  form  of  a  quadrangle,  the 
long  diameter  stretched  north  and  south,  the  bricks 
broken  and  crumbling,  the  motar  loosened:  sur- 
rounding the  quadrangle  like  pollen  from  a  maize 
plant,  a  sprinkling  of  old-fashioned  iron  nails  bent 
and  rusted;  scattered  among  these  latter  irregular 
balls  of  melted  glass,  variously  coloured  with  ox- 
ides like  the  borax  beads  of  a  chemist's  laboratory, 
surrounding  all,  enfolding  all,  a  colouring  of  the 
earth  a  shade  darker  than  the  rich  brown  of  prairie 
loam — the  black  of  wood  carbon  mixed  with  earth. 
This  only  was  the  last  marking  of  that  school  yard, 
no  longer  a  spot  of  interest  for  the  scholars  them- 
selves, long  since  forgotten  by  the  farmers  who 
made  up  the  district;  but  nevertheless  telling  to 
who  so  would  read  a  chapter  in  the  book  of  prairie 
development,  a  chronicle  of  the  time  before  the 
checker-board  of  black  and  of  green,  or  of  yellow 
and  of  green,  made  its  appearance.  The  condition 
that  made  it  possible,  the  day  of  unbroken  prairie 
for  mile  after  mile,  had  gone  by.  The  narrow 
band  of  ploughing  surrounding  its  successor  was 


Defeat  125 

now  adequate  protection.  Yet,  somewhere,  a  step 
westward  in  the  march  of  civilisation,  a  hundred 
miles,  two  hundred  perhaps,  other  prairie  fires 
would  burn  invincible,  would  dominate  their  brief 
day;  and  conquered  at  last  in  turn,  would  vanish 
before  the  barrier  of  the  oncoming  human  wave. 


Up  the  straight  section  road  leading  from  the 
McLeod  house  to  the  schoolhouse,  in  the  hardened 
path  packed  by  the  wheels  of  passing  vehicles, 
bordered  on  the  one  side  by  frost  brown  grass  and 
the  other  by  the  skeletons  of  dead  sunflowers,  his 
body  bobbing  up  and  down  as  he  limped  along, 
came  a  small  boy  of  the  age  of  ten.  The  time  was 
December,  the  beginning  of  the  winter  term,  but 
not  a  flake  of  snow  was  on  the  ground.  Yet  the 
air  was  sharp,  chilly  sharp  to  one  unaccustomed  to 
its  touch,  and  frost  crystals  glistened  everywhere. 
In  the  east  the  sun  was  just  mounting  into  the  skyr 
the  level  rays  dazzling  bright.  From  far  in  the 
distance,  distinct  over  the  silent  earth,  came  the 
muffled  hum  of  a  threshing  machine.  But  no  as- 
cending column  of  smoke  marked  its  location.  It 
was  the  day  of  horse  power,  the  predecessor  of 
steam.  In  the  way  the  boy  was  headed  but  one  trail 
of  smoke  arose  into  the  sky,  and  toward  it  he  was 
steadily  moving.  And  thereby  hung  the  solution 
of  his  unwonted  appearance  abroad  at  this  hour  of 


126  The  Quest  Eternal 

the  day.  For  that  smoke  was  from  the  chimney 
of  the  old  barrel  stove  in  the  district  schoolhouse, 
and  in  the  career  of  Robert  McLeod  an  epoch 
was  beginning.  It  was  to  be  his  first  day  at 
school. 

Upon  his  way,  methodically  as  he  did  everything, 
tramped  the  boy,  his  dinner  of  two  slices  of  bread 
and  a  single  red  apple  on  top  in  the  tin  pail  firm 
in  his  grip;  a  second-hand  First  Reader,  that  An- 
drew McLeod  had  purchased  in  town  and  that  the 
boy  himself  had  carefully  covered  with  cloth,  under 
his  arm.  Though  it  was  early,  a  half  hour  before 
opening,  from  other  roads  he  could  see  similar 
figures  heading  Meccawards ;  as  he  drew  nearer 
could  hear  them  call  individual  names.  But  none 
called  his  name,  even  when  he  came  close  enough 
so  that  faces  could  be  distinguished.  A  boy,  even 
though  he  be  small  and  crippled  a  bit,  is  a  handy 
piece  of  machinery  on  a  farm,  and  on  previous 
years,  when  the  period  of  usefulness  was  past,  he  had 
been  too  small  to  make  the  long  walk  to  school  in 
the  winter's  cold.  In  consequence  he  was  a  stranger 
at  the  seat  of  learning,  an  alien,  a  knight  who  had 
yet  to  test  his  spurs. 

Up  the  narrow  path  leading  to  the  schoolhouse 
turned  the  boy;  a  non-combatant  in  his  father's 
cut-off  overalls,  a  human  being  without  malice  or 
guile.  A  half  dozen  other  boys,  big  and  little,  each 
alike  eyeing  him  askance,  were  already  congregated 


Defeat  I  27 

at  the  entrance ;  but  to  him  all  were  strangers  and, 
diffident,  he  passed  them  by.  As  he  did  so,  without 
turning,  of  a  sudden  he  was  conscious  that  some- 
thing unusual  had  happened,  something  that  con- 
cerned him.  The  bare  patch  was  frozen  hard  as 
Macadam  and,  listening,  he  could  hear,  like  an 
echo,  the  patter  of  six  other  pairs  of  feet  marking 
time  with  his  own.  It  was  fifteen  rods  to  the  build- 
ing itself  from  the  road.  Five  of  these  he  covered 
steadily,  doggedly  indifferent;  but  all  the  time  he 
was  listening  and,  bit  by  bit,  he  understood.  With- 
out a  word  being  spoken  he  understood.  For  those 
steps  which  echoed  his  own  were  not  uniform.  Al- 
ternating, forming  a  cycle,  one  was  heavy  and  firm 
and  the  other  unsteady  and  grinding:  the  footfall 
of  one  who  walked  with  a  limp.  Yet  even  then  the 
boy  did  not  glance  back,  gave  no  sign  that  he  un- 
derstood. It  was  still  early.  The  good-natured 
farmer  who  had  built  the  fire  for  the  city  girl  serv- 
ing her  probation  in  their  midst  had  long  since 
gone,  the  teacher  herself  had  not  yet  come ;  but  this 
the  boy  did  not  know.  Had  he  known  he  would 
not  have  cared.  For  shade  by  shade  the  slow-rising 
Scotch  blood  in  the  veins  of  Robert  McLeod  was 
warming.  Bit  by  bit  he  was  wandering  from  the 
path  of  a  non-combatant.  On  he  went,  two  rods, 
three,  his  ears  taking  testimony,  waiting  for  cer- 
tainty; then,  when  he  was  almost  to  the  door,  came 
conviction.  From  behind  him,  challenging,  baiting, 


128  The  Quest  Eternal 

sounded  a  voice — a  voice  that  spoke  but  a  single 
word  yet  that  word  gall. 

"Strawfoot!"  sneered  the  voice. 

Deliberate,  Scotch  deliberate,  the  challenged 
halted.  Scotch  deliberate  for  the  first  time  he 
turned,  faced  a  line,  Indian  file,  in  the  trail  behind 
him. 

"Who  said  that?"  he  asked. 

Silence  from  the  six;  but  on  every  face,  from  the 
shortest  to  the  tallest,  was  a  grin. 

"Who  said  that?"  repeated  the  boy  steadily,  not 
as  a  child  ordinarily  would  have  asked,  but  as  a 
man  questions. 

Out  of  the  line,  number  four  in  order,  stepped  a 
youth ;  one  big  as  two  of  the  baited,  ponderous  of 
foot  and  of  fist,  a  missing  front  tooth  giving  testi- 
mony of  former  conflict. 

"Strawfoot,  I  say,"  he  announced.  A  leer  and 
the  query  inevitable,  "What're  you  going  to  do 
about  it?" 

No  delay  this  time  nor  courtesy  preliminary. 
Down  on  the  ground  went  the  tin  dinner  pail  and 
atop  the  cherished  First  Reader. 

"Take  it  back." 

"Make  me — if  you  dare." 

They  fought;  arm  over  arm,  boy  fashion,  nature 
fashion,  as  a  puppy  instinctively  swims;  their  fists 
circling  like  flails,  give  and  take,  the  smaller 
silently,  the  bigger  with  farm-hand  curses  on  his 


Defeat  129 

lips,  the  five  spectators  dancing  about  them  and 
cheering  them  on.  It  was  a  royal  moment. 

"Take  that,"  exulted  the  big  one  and  the  blow 
fell  true.  "And  that,  strawfoot,  strawfoot,  and 
that!"  No  need  temporarily  for  more.  The 
smaller  was  down,  the  dust  of  earth  in  his  mouth, 
the  blood  from  a  cut  lip  staining  his  face ;  but  only 
for  a  moment.  An  instant,  while  in  rising  he 
struggled  with  his  ungainly  crippled  foot,  and  he 
was  up  and,  silent  as  at  first,  at  it  again. 

"Want  some  more,  eh,  strawfoot?"  repeated  the 
voice  of  exultation.  "Take  this  one,  then,  and  this, 
and  this!" 

Another  pause  in  the  hostilities  and  another  puff 
of  dust  while  the  prostrate  struggled  to  his  feet. 

Again  and  again  and  once  again  the  small  boy 
went  down;  like  a  tenpin,  his  clumsy  foot  making 
him  an  easy  target,  until  sympathy  began  turning 
his  way ;  a  sympathy  expressed  as  yet  not  by  words 
but  by  silence.  Yet  each  time  the  boy  himself  was 
up  again  and  at  it  anew.  Incredible  as  it  seemed 
to  the  watching  five,  he  appeared  incapable  of  de- 
feat. Long  ere  this  his  face  was  stained  with 
blood  and  mud  and  the  old  coat  he  wore  was  ripped 
to  tatters.  Still  he  said  nothing,  asked  not  for 
quarter,  spoke  no  defiance.  It  was  uncanny,  that 
relentless  struggle  against  odds,  that  silent,  in- 
domitable courage.  At  last  even  the  spectators, 
subservient  ordinarily  to  their  leader,  began  to  mur- 


130  The  Quest  Eternal 

mur.  In  instinctive  protest,  instinctive  rebellion  they 
drew  together. 

"Let  him  go,  Bud,"  suggested  one  hesitatingly  to 
the  big  aggressor.  "He's  got  enough.  Let  him 

go-" 

"Yes,  enough's  enough,"  seconded  another. 

"Let  him  say  so,  then,"  acquiesced  the  victorious 
Bud,  sullenly.  "Got  a  plenty  of  it,  have  you,  straw- 
foot?" 

"Cheese  that  strawfoot  business,"  echoed  the  first 
to  protest.  "It's  a  shame  to  call  him  that — now." 

"Shut  up  or  I'll  give  you  a  dose  of  the  same  medi- 
cine," growled  the  criticised,  the  lust  of  battle 
and  of  victory  hot  upon  him. 

All  this  while  Bob  the  valiant  was  getting  him- 
self together.  For  though  they  had  protested  none 
had  interrupted.  While  human  nature  was  human 
and  that  last  threat  loomed  huge  on  the  horizon, 
none  would  interfere.  Time  had  passed  while  the 
conflict  had  waged;  time  of  which  all  were  uncon- 
scious. For  them  the  outside  world  had  lapsed. 
School  and  teachers  and  other  scholars  were  buried 
deep  in  oblivion.  They,  the  spectators,  only  knew 
that  once  again  on  his  feet  the  new  boy  had  re- 
sumed the  battle,  that  farm-hand  curses  were  once 
more  in  the  air;  that  the  untrained  fists  were  work- 
ing anew;  that  at  last  yet  once  again  the  big  boy 
had  struck  true  and  for  the  final  repetition  the 
smaller  boy  had  gone  down  in  a  puff  of  dust.  That 


Defeat  131 

then,  then,  suddenly  as  from  a  clear  sky  a  hawk 
swoops  down  upon  its  victim,  a  new  combatant  had 
entered  the  arena;  a  combatant  not  silent  but  bub- 
bling with  language,  with  scorn,  with  menace;  a 
combatant  smaller  than  the  boy  himself,  but  never- 
theless dominating  the  situation,  sweeping  all  be- 
fore. For  it  was  a  girl  who  came,  a  dark  little  girl, 
skinny  and  long  of  leg  and  of  arm,  a  single  brown 
braid  dangling  down  her  back,  one  garter  loosened 
and  flapping  about  her  knee.  Like  an  avenging 
demon,  she  bore  down  upon  the  triumphant  Bud, 
while  like  leaves  before  a  wind  the  five  scattered  to 
give  her  room. 

"You  big  beast,  you,"  she  challenged  fiercely, 
"you  big,  big  beast!"  Before  he  could  escape  she 
was  upon  him,  one  hand  in  his  hair,  its  mate  scratch- 
ing at  his  face  regardless  of  consequences,  devoid 
of  fear.  "I'll  teach  you  to  pick  on  some  one  smaller 
than  yourself,  you  big  bully,  I'll " 

But  the  battle  was  over,  the  threat  ending  in  a  flow 
of  sympathy  intended  for  one  ear  alone.  For,  the 
enemy  in  retreat,  the  girl  became  suddenly  oblivious 
to  their  propinquity,  oblivious  to  all  except  the  in- 
stinct of  the  maternal. 

"Bob,"  she  assisted  the  prostrate  to  his  clumsy 
foot,  feeling  of  him  the  while  here  and  there  to  dis- 
cover possible  fracture,  "Bob,  are  you  hurt?" 

"No."  Impassively  as  though  it  were  an  every- 
day occurrence  the  boy  rubbed  the  blood  and  dirt 


132  The  Quest  Eternal 

from  his  face  with  the  tail  of  his  coat.  "I'm  not 
beaten  either."  A  pause  for  breath  and  a  glance 
about  for  his  opponent,  with  a  view  to  future  hostili- 
ties. "Where's  he  gone?" 

"Home,  I  guess.  I  don't  know."  From  the  in- 
definite supply  which  every  woman  child  carries  in 
reserve  the  girl  had  produced  pins  and  was  joining 
the  worst  of  the  tears  in  the  old  coat.  "Anyway, 
there  isn't  time  to  find  out  now.  Teacher's  com- 
ing." 

Of  a  sudden  the  boy  remembered.  For  the  time 
being  war  had  obscured  the  horizon.  Now  it  in 
turn  yielded  precedence. 

"I  forgot,"  explained  the  boy  simply.  Inside  the 
schoolhouse  a  bell  was  ringing.  Outside  the  other 
scholars  in  a  staring  group  were  watching  the  iso- 
lated two,  curiously.  Silently  the  boy  picked  up  the 
dinner  pail  and  First  Reader.  Equally  silently 
he  started  for  the  entrance.  At  the  second 
step,  however,  he  halted,  looked  his  companion 
squarely. 

"Do  you  think,  Peg,  if  he  had  stayed  he  would 
have  licked  me?"  asked  a  voice  directly. 

A  lie,  a  kind  lie,  formed  on  the  girl's  lips;  then 
as  suddenly  vanished.  She  had  never  yet  spoken 
untruth  when  those  blue  eyes  met  her  own. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  think  so.  He  was  twice  as  big 
as  you." 

A  second  they  stood  so  looking  at  each  other,  the 


Defeat  133 

first  real  defeat  of  his  life  staring  the  boy  unmistak- 
ably in  the  face.  Then,  without  comment,  without 
further  question  he  turned  about  and,  taciturn  as  at 
first,  led  the  way  within.  Simultaneously  over  the 
tiny  trampled  school  yard,  over  the  surrounding 
earth  returned  silence  complete:  the  silence  absolute 
that  on  the  prairie  spelt  winter. 


CHAPTER  X 

AS  GATHERS  A  CLOUD 

IN  the  kitchen  of  the  McLeod  home  was  an  old- 
fashioned  cupboard.  White  pine,  stained  to  imi- 
tate cherry,  made  up  its  back  and  sides  and  shelves. 
Tin  plates,  punctured  in  designs  of  fantastic  birds 
and  flowers,  comprised  the  panels  of  its  doors.  In 
its  entirety  it  was  a  relic  of  the  past,  a  souvenir  from 
a  long  forgotten  auction  in  the  neighbourhood. 

On  the  lower  shelves  of  the  receptacle  were  the 
dishes  of  the  household :  of  china,  of  glass,  and  of 
queensware.  On  the  upper  were  odds  and  ends  of 
domestic  necesity :  nails  and  screws,  twine  and  ham- 
mer, garden  seeds,  half-emptied  spice  cans,  plunder 
unclassified ;  and,  last  of  all,  far  in  the  corner,  inno- 
cent-looking, unobtrusive,  a  cracked  bowl,  filled 
apparently  with  common  beans.  Of  all  the  articles 
of  uniformly  little  value  contained  therein  that  frac- 
tured bowl  and  its  contents  would  have  seemed  to  a 
casual  observer  the  least  promising;  yet  in  a  world 
of  deceptive  appearances  it  was  of  the  type  true. 
For  in  the  six  years  it  had  occupied  that  same  posi- 
tion, not  a  single  bean  of  its  contents  had  disap- 
peared. Save  to  be  poured  out  now  and  then,  and 
as  often  replaced,  they  had  not  been  touched.  But 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  1 35 

one  change  in  all  that  time  had  taken  place:  and 
that  a  seeming  miracle.  When  first  they  found  their 
resting  place  within  the  bowl  their  level  was  within 
an  inch  of  the  top.  Now,  though  none  had  been 
added  to  their  number,  they  were  fairly  flush  with 
the  brim.  Had  they  been  wet  the  explanation  might 
have  been  simple ;  but  instead  they  were  dry  as  pow- 
der. The  solution  obviously  lay  beneath  the  sur- 
face ;  was  beneath  the  surface,  for  that  bowl  was  the 
McLeod  family  bank,  and  that  gradual  increase 
marked  the  growth  of  the  family  surplus  in  silver 
dollars.  On  the  day  long  ago,  when  McLeod  and  the 
boy  had  gone  to  town  to  consult  physician  Tread- 
way,  on  the  day  Peg  Stanton  had  become  a  member 
of  the  household,  the  accumulation  had  begun — 
with  two  lone  representatives.  Now,  six  years  later, 
it  had  reached  high-water  mark.  A  careful  inspec- 
tion would  have  revealed  what  that  total  was.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  but  a  week  before  the  census  had 
been  taken — and  seventy-eight  members  had  an- 
swered to  the  call  of  the  roll. 

For  Bob  McLeod  had  not  gone  to  the  city  to  visit 
a  surgeon  the  year  following  that  journey.  In  the 
development  of  a  prairie  country  there  are  even 
cycles,  fat  years  and  lean  years;  and  the  record 
shows  that  the  cycle  following  was  lean — lean  to  the 
point  of  emaciation.  Of  those  six  years  four  had 
been  blanks;  so  blank  that  not  even  seed  was  re- 
turned to  the  sower.  For  four  years  in  succession 


136  The  Quest  Eternal 

tke  rains  had  not  come,  and  in  consequence  the 
checker-board  of  prairie  had  given  place  to  a  mono- 
chrome of  brown  from  horizon  to  horizon:  the 
brown  of  vegetation  dead.  Rivers  had  become 
creeks,  those  years.  Creeks  had  become  dry  runs 
sprinkled  with  the  skeletons  of  strangled  bullheads 
and  perch.  Shallow  prairie  lakes  lapsed  into  mea- 
dows— the  only  spots  where  a  semblance  of  green 
maintained  throughout  the  season.  Wells  perforce 
went  deeper  and  deeper  or  dried  completely.  Only 
in  the  unfailing  artesian  belt,  where  the  lukewarm 
streams  flowed  endlessly,  was  there  water  for  the 
asking.  Elsewhere  it  was  a  treasure,  guarded  as 
treasure  is  ever  guarded,  if  necessary  with  life  it- 
self. 

This  the  lean  cycle  when  farmers  cursed  or  prayed 
as  was  their  bent,  and  travelled  far  in  the  spring- 
time for  seed  with  which  to  gamble  afresh.  Then 
at  last  the  pendulum  swung  back  and  the  fat  cycle 
returned.  Answering,  the  rivers  flushed  to  their 
banks,  the  creeks  took  up  their  old,  old  song. 
Where  the  meadows  had  formed,  the  teal,  the  mal- 
lard, and  the  widgeon  raised  their  broods  as  of 
yore;  and  as  though  she  had  not  offended,  indif- 
ferent as  a  hardened  gambler,  nature,  through  the 
medium  of  the  prairie  checker-board  of  mottled 
green  and  brown,  proffered  challenge  afresh  for  a 
new  game. 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  137 

And  among  those  who  accepted  issue,  among  those 
who  temporarily  won,  were  the  family  McLeod. 
For  harvest  was  now  over,  the  second  fat  harvest, 
and  bin  and  crib  were  comfortably  filled.  A  fort- 
night had  passed  since  the  fall  work  was  complete. 
During  an  equal  period,  nightly  councils  had  been 
held  in  that  old  farmhouse,  unchanged  from  the 
day  it  was  built,  barren  almost  as  a  barn.  For  years 
the  topic  now  under  discussion  had  not  been 
broached.  Always  just  beneath  the  surface  in  the 
minds  of  all  three  of  the  members  of  that  council 
it  had  not  been  resurrected.  To  do  so  would  have 
been  useless  pain.  With  starvation,  not  theoret- 
ical but  actual,  staring  them  in  the  face,  the  lesser 
evil  had  been  submerged  in  the  greater.  But  at  last 
all  was  changed.  Prosperity  was  abroad  in  the 
land  and  they  had  received  their  quota.  It  was  the 
psychological  moment,  the  time  to  which  they  had 
looked  forward,  the  time  to  do — and  the  council  had 
convened. 

At  the  beginning  no  cloud  loomed  upon  the  hori- 
zon, none  seemed  possible  of  issue.  Then  of  a  sud- 
den, seemingly  from  a  clear  sky  where  none  could 
gather,  one  had  appeared.  For  a  week  the  exact 
day  of  Robert  McLeod's  departure  had  been  set. 
Treadway  the  silent  was  to  be  his  companion,  had 
himself  suggested  the  date.  To  him,  two  days  pre- 
vious, Andrew  McLeod  had  gone  alone.  For  long, 
the  major  part  of  the  day,  the  two  had  remained 


138  The  Quest  Eternal 

closeted ;  the  outer  door  of  the  doctor's  office  locked 
against  all  comers.  What  happened  behind  those 
closed  doors  the  two  men  alone  knew ;  but  when  at 
last  Andrew  McLeod  came  forth  it  was  a  far  differ- 
ent man  from  the  one  who  had  entered:  a  man 
whom  the  few  neighbours  he  passed  on  his  return 
scarce  recognised.  For  of  a  sudden  a  demon  of  un- 
rest, of  feverish  haste  seemed  to  have  possessed  the 
hitherto  passive  farmer,  a  demon  of  fierce  silence 
likewise.  It  was  the  cloud  accumulating,  but  the 
two  who  watched  knew  not  its  cause.  Through 
supper  that  night  no  word  was  spoken.  Through 
the  long  evening  that  followed  silence  still  reigned 
— and  the  cloud  grew  blacker  and  blacker.  Until 
the  girl  went  to  bed  in  her  own  room  in  the  lean-to 
and  the  boy  climbed  to  his  place  in  the  loft,  where 
for  years  now  he  had  slept,  McLeod  sat  mute  in 
his  chair,  his  stiffened  fingers  locked  in  his  lap,  his 
eyes  staring  straight  before  him.  Then,  alone  in 
the  single  room,  the  demon  had  gained  mastery  and 
he  had  begun  to  walk.  Back  and  forth,  back  and 
forth  the  listeners  heard  him  stride;  regularly,  un- 
tiringly, apparently  ceaselessly.  Until  sleep  claimed 
them  both,  they  heard  him  so,  battling  with  the  un- 
known. Once  during  the  night  the  boy  had 
aroused;  and  at  last  had  gone  to  sleep  with  the 
steady  tramp  still  in  his  ears.  When  finally  he 
awoke  the  light  of  day  was  filtering  through  the 
cracks  of  the  ill-built  shanty,  but  at  last  the  place 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  139 

was  still.  Almost  with  premonition  he  arose.  The 
single  bed  below,  his  father's  bed,  had  been  un- 
touched. Out  of  doors  the  familiar  spring  wagon 
had  disappeared.  In  the  barn  no  answering  whinny 
greeted  his  coming;  the  team  likewise  had  gone. 
With  more  than  premonition  now,  with  all  but  as- 
surance, the  boy  returned  to  the  house.  The  girl 
had  arisen  ere  this  also  and  a  moment  on  meeting 
they  looked  each  other  fair  in  the  eyes;  looked  si- 
lently, steadily.  There  was  no  word  spoken,  no 
need  for  speech.  They  understood  each  other  in 
those  days,  these  two.  Instead,  simultaneously  to 
both  minds,  sprang  a  common  thought.  Answer- 
ing this,  with  a  nod  that  was  more  a  command  than 
a  suggestion,  the  girl  indicated  the  old  cupboard. 
Deliberately  obedient,  the  other  at  his  elbow,  the 
boy  threw  open  the  fancifully  decorated  tin  doors, 
gave  one  glance  within ;  and  stepped  back  without  a 
word. 

And  again  no  word  was  necessary.  In  the  far 
corner,  its  familiar  place,  was  the  cracked  bowl 
with  its  contents  of  white;  but  no  longer  was  its  brim 
full  as  of  yore.  Instead  the  level  of  its  contents 
was  a  full  inch  below  the  surface  of  the  rim.  There 
against  the  smooth  background  it  formed  a  line,  a 
marking  which  told  its  own  story  at  a  glance:  the 
mark  which  had  been  made  at  the  beginning  of  ac- 
cumulation six  years  before ! 


140  The  Quest  Eternal 

Not  a  small  boy  holding  his  father's  hand,  but  a 
slim  youth  of  sixteen,  nearly  full  grown  as  to  height, 
but  thin  and  narrow  chested,  climbed  the  stairs  of 
the  Cedar  Co.  Bank  building  and  made  his  way 
down  the  dingy,  dimly  lighted  hall.  Apparently 
in  those  years  intervening  from  the  former  call 
nothing  had  changed.  Even  the  town  itself  had 
scarcely  altered.  Like  a  dwarf  it  had  grown  nor- 
mally, rapidly  for  a  time  after  its  inception;  and 
then  apparently,  without  reason,  halted  in  a  qui- 
escence that  was  to  be  perpetual.  The  entrance 
through  which  the  visitor  had  conic  was  littered 
with  dust  and  pine  shavings  precisely  as  before.  To 
all  appearances  the  corridor  itself  had  meantime 
remained  innocent  of  a  broom.  The  same  battered 
tin  sign  with  its  immovably  pointing  index  was  still 
in  place.  Only  the  lettering  on  the  glass  panel  had 
yielded  to  the  passage  of  time  and,  peeling  here  and 
there,  still  spelled  the  familiar  name  of  Treadway, 
but  with  daylight  filtering  through  as  though 
painted  by  a  stencil. 

Opening  the  door,  the  visitor,  in  a  sudden  rush  of 
memory,  glanced  instinctively  at  the  window  from 
whence,  on  the  former  visit,  had  come  a  challenge. 
In  its  place  dangled  the  old  cage ;  but  no  voice  now 
came  from  within.  It  was  empty,  empty  as  the 
room  itself,  of  life.  Uncertain,  the  newcomer  stood 
there  a  moment  so,  glancing  about  him;  then  of  a 
sudden,  insistently  recalling  the  past,  fitting  exactly 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  141 

into  memory's  picture,  a  voice,  abrupt  and  testy, 
sounded  from  the  room  adjoining. 

"Come  in,"  it  demanded. 

Silently,  involuntarily  anticipating  the  glimpse  of 
a  dishevelled  bed  and  a  giant  figure  prostrate  there- 
in, the  visitor  obeyed.  Instead  he  found  a  well- 
lighted  room  with  a  cheap  desk  and  two  chairs.  In 
one  sat  a  man,  a  great  pipe  between  his  teeth,  a 
cloud  of  evil-smelling  smoke  above  his  head,  all 
surrounding.  His  back  was  toward  the  door  and 
he  was  writing  laboriously ;  his  great  shoulders  fol- 
lowing the  motion  of  his  hand.  Deliberately  he 
finished  his  work,  as  laboriously  turned.  "Well," 
he  said. 

For  a  moment,  as  on  entering  the  waiting  room 
the  boy  had  halted,  he  stood  so  now  in  the  door- 
way adjoining,  his  arms  folded  across  his  narrow 
chest,  the  battered  felt  hat  he  had  worn  dangling 
from  his  hand.  As  a  small  boy  it  was  his  uncon- 
scious attitude.  It  was  equally  involuntary  now 
— one  of  critical  almost  microscopic  observation, 
of  frankest  inquiry  unmixed  with  the  faintest  con- 
sciousness of  self. 

For  longer  than  either  realised  they  remained  so, 
each  in  silence  taking  the  measure  of  the  other. 
First  to  arouse  was  the  visitor.  With  an  uncon- 
scious limp  he  entered  the  room,  paused  looking 
down  at  the  man  seated  before  him. 


142  The  Quest  Eternal 

"I  came  to  ask  if  you  know  where  my  father  has 
gone,"  he  explained  abruptly. 

"Your  father!"  In  a  flash  came  recognition,  un- 
derstanding; a  trace  of  premonition  as  well. 
"You're  Bob  McLeod?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  your  father  has  disappeared — when?" 

"Some  time  during  the  night,  before  daylight." 

"You  have  no  knowledge  where  or  why?" 

"No." 

Swift  and  more  swiftly  came  the  questions  and  an- 
swers ;  then  abruptly  ceased.  For  ten  seconds  there- 
after Treadway  did  not  stir  in  his  seat;  but,  looking 
in  his  face,  observant  ever,  the  visitor  saw  some- 
thing like  a  mask  form  thereon.  Involuntarily  the 
eyelids  drooped  until  pockets  formed  beneath. 
Here  and  there  above  the  beard  line  a  wrinkle 
vanished  as  though  the  muscles  beneath  had  gone 
lax.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Robert  McLeod 
was  gazing  upon  a  gambler's  face  when  the  great 
game  was  on.  Ten  seconds  the  big  doctor  remained 
so,  passive,  scarcely  breathing ;  then,  with  a  sudden 
energy  of  which  the  spectator  had  not  believed  him 
capable,  he  aroused.  With  a  glance  at  his  watch 
he  was  on  his  feet  and  heading  straight  for  the  cor- 
ridor door.  He  paused  not  for  his  hat  nor  to  give 
explanation;  but,  almost  before  the  other  had  re- 
alised his  intent,  before,  if  protest  had  been  in- 
tended, it  could  have  been  spoken,  he  was  gone  and 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  143 

the  sound  of  his  heavy  footfall  was  echoing  down 
the  hall. 

Left  solitary,  with  something  akin  to  inspiration, 
Robert  McLeod  crossed  to  the  window  and  glanced 
down  on  the  street  below.  A  moment  he  waited; 
then  suddenly  that  which  it  seemed  to  him  he  had 
anticipated  occurred.  Around  the  corner  of  the 
building,  bareheaded,  irresistible,  came  the  figure  of 
the  big  doctor.  A  farmer  in  a  light  road  wagon 
had  just  driven  up  to  the  walk  and,  preparatory  to 
alighting,  was  adjusting  the  reins  over  the  dashboard. 
Straight  toward  him  came  Treadway  and  in  an  in- 
stant was  in  the  seat  beside.  If  he  made  explana- 
tion or  request  or  demand  the  spectator  could  not 
see  or  hear.  He  merely  took  the  reins  and  posses- 
sion, the  sound  of  the  whip  cut  the  air,  and  again 
the  team  sprang  into  a  gallop;  then  down  the 
street  in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station  arose 
and  advanced  a  cloud  of  dust,  turned  at  an  angle, 
was  cut  from  view.  Simultaneously  at  the  door- 
ways of  half  a  score  of  stores  appeared  their 
keepers;  shirt-sleeved,  curious.  In  the  distance  the 
rattle  of  the  road  wagon  diminished  second  by  sec- 
ond. Silence  returned. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour,  twenty  minutes  perhaps, 
passed.  Curiosity  temporarily  spent,  one  by  one 
the  figures  in  the  doorways  disappeared.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  the  drowsy  street  now,  not  a 
sound  from  the  building  itself.  For  perhaps  half 


144  The  Quest  Eternal 

that  time  the  boy  stood  as  he  was,  gazing  absently 
out  of  the  window,  out  beyond  the  narrow  confines 
of  the  tiny  town  onto  the  broad  prairie  beyond — 
the  only  view  he  had  ever  known.  Conscious  at  last 
that  he  was  weary  he  retraced  his  steps  and  sat 
down  on  the  chair  opposite  that  which  Treadway 
had  occupied;  his  arms  involuntarily  crossed,  the 
crippled  foot  thrust  out  before  him,  patiently  wait- 
ing. 

Up  the  stairway  to  the  rear  at  last,  heavy,  grind- 
ing, sounded  footsteps ;  different  as  darkness  is  from 
light  from  those  which  had  descended,  yet  never- 
theless distinctive,  unmistakable.  Slowly,  with  an 
appreciable  interval  between,  they  came  up  the  cor- 
ridor, the  door  opened  and  closed,  the  floor  of 
the  waiting  room  creaked  and  Treadway  entered. 
Without  a  word  he  resumed  his  former  place.  The 
pipe  he  had  been  smoking  lay  on  the  desk  before 
him;  and,  still  in  silence,  he  filled  the  bowl  afresh 
and  puffed  until  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  towered 
toward  the  ceiling.  Even  then  he  did  not  speak  but 
sat  staring  at  his  companion  with  a  directness  and 
intensity  that  in  another  would  have  been  pure  dis- 
courtesy but  with  him  was  unconscious  absolutely. 
Not  a  minute  but  minutes  passed  so ;  then  abruptly 
the  pipe  left  his  lips. 

"The  train  was  late  to-day  and  I  thought  perhaps 
I  could  make  it,"  he  said,  "but  it  was  gone.  I 
wired  instead." 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  145 

The  boy  made  no  comment,  but  his  blue  eyes  met 
those  of  the  speaker  directly,  unshiftingly. 

"If  you  had  been  a  half  hour  earlier,  if  I  could 
have  known " 

"I  got  here  as  quick  as  I  could.  The  team  you 
know  was  gone." 

"You  walked" — it  was  almost  incredulity — 
"twenty  miles  with  that  foot?" 

"I  ran  most  of  the  way.  Finally  I  overtook  a 
farmer  coming  to  town." 

Once,  and  again  a  puff  of  smoke  ascended  toward 
the  ceiling. 

"I  thought  you  knew  nothing." 

"I  suspected  that  you  knew  a  good  deal.  He  was 
to  see  you  yesterday,  sir." 

"And  acted  peculiarly  when  he  got  home?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  suspect  more  now?" 

"I  judge  you  think  he  left  on  that  train." 

"You  know  why?" 

"I  expect  you  to  tell  me." 

Puff,  puff,  went  the  pipe  again;  then  the  question 
was  repeated. 

"You  suspect  why  already?" 

"I  can  think  of  but  one  reason,  sir." 

"An  adequate  reason?" 

"There  is  but  one." 

For  the  third  time  the  smoke  belched  forth,  again 
and  again  and  again. 


146  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Do  you  know  the  story  of  your  father's  early 
life?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"All?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Dr.  Stone " 

"Yes." 

"  It  was  he  I  wired." 

The  boy  said  nothing,  but  the  pupils  of  his  blue 
eyes  widened. 

"Did  you  know  it  was  he  we  were  going  to  see 
to-morrow?" 

Silence. 

"Did  you  know  that?" 

"No.    Not  before." 

The  contents  of  the  pipe  had  burned  to  ashes  and 
Treadway  replenished  the  bowl  deliberately. 

"Would  it  have  made  any  difference  if  you  had 
known?"  he  asked  slowly. 

Silence  again. 

"Would  it?" 

The  arms  that  had  been  folded  across  the  boy's 
chest  unclasped,  dropped  to  his  lap. 

"After  all,  I  am  my  father's  son,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  go  to  him  anyway  now — that  I  know." 

"When  he  is  the  only  man  near  capable  of  taking 
your  case?" 

"Not  if  he  were  the  only  surgeon  in  the  world." 

Treadway's  eyes  dropped  to  the  desk  before  him. 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  147 

"You  said  'anyway,'  "  he  suggested. 

"There  are  other  reasons  now." 

"Good  ones?" 

"Very  good." 

The  doctor's  glance  returned  to  the  other's  face. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  somewhere  else,  to  Chicago, 
say?" 

"Not  now." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"It  would  be  useless.    I  can't  go." 

"You  know  what  it  means  to  delay  much  longer, 
that  you  will  be  lame  always?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  still  you  say  you  can't?" 

"Yes." 

For  the  second  time  Treadway's  glance  dropped. 
His  hand  fumbled  absently  with  a  paper  on  the  desk 
top. 

"Would  it  be  inquisitive  if  I  should  ask  why?"  he 
suggested. 

"I  should  perfer  you  would  not  ask,  sir." 

A  pause  followed,  a  meaning  pause.  Heretofore 
they  had  both  been  merely  sparring  for  time,  time 
to  think.  The  real  issue,  the  vital  issue  of  the 
moment,  was  still  before  them  untouched.  To  it 
at  last  they  had  come.  Approaching  it  the  posi- 
tion of  questioner  and  questioned  reversed. 

"You  sent  a  telegram  you  said."  It  was  the  boy 
who  spoke.  "What  was  it,  please?" 


148  The  Quest  Eternal 

As  though  the  query  were  expected  the  big  man 
fumbled  in  his  pockets  and  drew  out  a  folded  yel- 
low sheet.  "This  is  a  copy,"  he  said. 

Bob  McLeod  read  and  with  a  steady  hand  gave  it 
back.  As  he  did  so  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  other, 
held  them  so. 

"You  know  something  that  I  don't  know  or  you 
wouldn't  have  sent  that  warning,"  he  said  tensely. 
"Tell  me  what  it  is.  It's  my  right  that  you  should." 
He  halted,  unconsciously  moistening  his  lips. 
"What  was  it  you  told  my  father  yesterday,  what 
that  he  didn't  already  know?" 

For  a  moment  Treadway  did  not  answer,  did  not 
stir.  Then  of  a  sudden,  reaching  over,  he  drew  a 
folded  newspaper  from  a  pigeonhole  and  indicated 
a  marked  item.  "It's  the  Sioux  Ridge  Times  of 
day  before  yesterday,"  he  explained  simply. 

As  before,  Bob  McLeod  read.  Despite  an  effort 
to  prevent,  his  face  twitched;  then,  ignored,  the 
paper  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"You  showed  him  that  announcement,  that  Sid- 
ney Stone  was  to  be  married  a  week  from  to-day, 
Dr.  Treadway?" 

For  the  first  time  the  mask  dropped  from  the  big 
doctor's  face  and  in  its  stead  came  a  look  of  under- 
standing and  of  sympathy  for  the  boy  before  him 
that  no  human  being  could  question ;  that  was  like 
a  father  for  his  son. 

"Yes,  I  showed  it  to  him  yesterday.    He  came  to 


As  Gathers  a  Cloud  149 

me  in  the  morning  and  wanted  the  date  of  our  go- 
ing postponed ;  why  I  don't  know.  He  insisted.  I 
refused  positively.  I  had  just  noticed  that  item  in 
the  paper  the  night  before,  and  as  a  final  argument 
against  delay  showed  it  to  him.  Stone  was  to  be 
married  and  going  to  Europe  on  a  wedding  trip ; 
to  be  gone  months  perhaps.  We  couldn't  wait 
longer.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  trouble  between 
your  father  and  Stone  except  that  partnership  of 
years  ago,  when  practically  they  were  both  boys; 
guessed  nothing  until  the  moment  when  he  read 
that  notice  for  himself."  Unconsciously  the  man 
had  been  speaking  faster  and  faster.  Now,  equally 
unconsciously,  recollection  of  that  moment  of  which 
he  had  spoken  held  him  silent.  Five  seconds  passed, 
a  terrible  meaning  pause.  "Then  I  knew.  What 
your  father  said  I  won't  repeat.  He  was  mad.  It 
was,  as  you  know,  about  train  time  that  he  came. 
An  instinct  made  me  lock  the  door.  He  tried  to 
get  away,  to  go  as  he  went  to-day.  I  prevented. 
For  four  hours  I  was  alone  here  in  this  room  with  a 
maniac.  I  am  stronger  than  he.  That's  all  that 
saved  us  both.  I  argued,  pleaded,  commanded, 
fought,  and  at  last  he  grew  quiet.  Before  he  left 
he  promised  on  his  word  of  honour  he  would  go 
home  and  stay,  promised  Stone  forgiveness.  I  be- 
lieved him.  I  let  him  go  then  and  we  went  down- 
town together.  Before  starting  he  thanked  me  and 
promised  again."  In  his  narrative  the  speaker  had 


150  The  Quest  Eternal 

forgotten  the  listener,  had  been  merely  living  it 
all  over  again.  Now  he  remembered.  "That  was 
all,"  he  said.  "You  know  the  rest." 

For  a  moment  silence  reigned  in  the  tiny  office, 
silence  doubly  intense.  Then  Robert  McLeod 
stirred  in  his  place. 

"There  is  nothing  more  We  can  do  now  that  I  can 
see,"  he  commented  simply. 

"No,  we  can  do  nothing  but  wait." 

"And— Sidney  Stone " 

"Nothing  but  a  miracle  can  save  Stone  now.  I 
know  him.  He's  too  stubborn  to  leave  at  a  warn- 
ing, and  besides  he's  a  lot  at  stake.  He  won't  leave." 

"You  think  my  father  then " 

"Your  father's  insane.  He  deceived  me  yester- 
day; but  now  I  know  better.  He  said  that  since 
Stone  had  done  what  he  did  and  broken  his  word 
they  two  would  die  together — and  they  will.  God 
forgive  them,  but  they  will!" 

For  the  last  time  fell  silence;  silence  all  compre- 
hending, silence  that  left  no  room  for  words. 
Breaking  it  at  last  the  boy  arose.  In  those  few 
moments  his  prematurely  old  face  had  grown 
months  older;  but  it  was  steady  as  the  face  of  a  fate, 
as  the  face  of  the  fatalist  he  was.  Starting  to 
leave,  in  silent  courtesy  he  held  out  his  hand,  in 
silence  the  other  took  it.  That  was  all — and  he 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XI 

LIFE'S  WHEEL,  RELENTLESS 

THE  hush  of  Sunday  was  upon  the  little  prairie 
borough.  Up  and  down  the  length  of  the  single 
business  street  not  a  place  was  occupied,  not  a  door 
was  open.  Though  it  was  past  ten  o'clock  no  pe- 
destrian was  visible.  Ordinarily  the  tiny  town  was 
plethoric  as  an  Indian  camp  of  dogs;  but  this  day 
they  too  had  vanished.  From  end  to  end  it  was 
as  the  thoroughfare  of  a  deserted  village  swept 
free  of  any  vestige  of  animal  life  as  by  the  visitation 
of  a  pestilence.  The  Sabbath  it  was  to  be  sure ;  yet 
not  such  a  Sabbath  as  the  citizens  ordinarily  knew. 
Never  before  in  the  memory  of  an  inhabitant,  while 
the  light  of  day  was  upon  the  land,  had  the  little 
tobacco  store  of  Dutchman  Franz  Mueller,  mid- 
way between  the  bank  and  the  post-office,  been  de- 
serted; yet  it  too  was  deserted  this  day,  the  shade 
drawn  tight  over  its  small-paned  windows.  It  was 
uncanny  to  one  who  knew,  that  tightly  drawn 
shade;  ominous  in  its  testimony  of  the  unusual.  For 
Franz  Mueller  did  not  attend  church — no  human 
being  had  ever  seen  him  within  sanctuary  doors — 
it  could  not  be  that  which  had  kept  him  away.  He 
never  hunted,  nor  raced  horses,  nor  coursed  with  the 


152  The  Quest  Eternal 

hounds.  Such  explanation  for  his  present  absence 
was  unthinkable.  Obviously,  something  unprece- 
dented was  taking  place  or  about  to  take  place; 
something  so  extraordinary  as  to  upset  the  very 
foundations  of  local  routine,  something  that 
occurs  but  once  in  the  life  history  of  a  com- 
munity and  remains  thereafter  a  date  from  which 
to  reckon:  an  end  thing  of  one  of  the  two  ex- 
tremes of  human  fascination — the  bizarre  or  the 
horrible. 

This  the  main  street  on  that  frosty  Sabbath  morn- 
ing in  early  winter.  This  the  first  hint  of  omen. 
Near  at  hand,  very  near  at  hand,  but  a  block  sepa- 
rating, was  the  second.  The  village  boasted  one 
church — and  one  alone.  Yet,  though  now  the  door 
thereof  was  invitingly  open,  though  the  customary 
hour  for  service  was  at  hand,  the  locality  was  de- 
serted as  the  main  street  at  its  side.  The  long  row 
of  hitching  posts  in  front  were  unused.  The  frayed 
rope  that  dangled  from  the  bell  above  swung  idly 
back  and  forth  in  the  prairie  breeze.  To  be  sure 
a  thin  trail  of  bituminous  smoke  curled  up  and 
away  from  the  single  chimney;  but  save  for  that  no 
sign  of  human  interference  was  manifest,  none  ap- 
parent that  there  had  been  occupation  that  day.  As 
the  deserted  street  had  been  ominous  this  newer 
revelation  accentuated  the  impression.  The  church 
vacant  at  time  of  service  on  a  Sabbath  morning  was 
an  uncanny  thing.  Inevitably  it  struck  at  the  foun- 


Life's  Wheel,  Relentless  153 

dation  of  established  order,  bore  a  suggestion  of 
mystery  and  of  horror;  of  famine  or  of  pestilence, 
of  license  or  of  sudden  death.  It  was  more  than 
unprecedented.  It  was  akin  to  sacrilege. 

This  the  second  token  of  the  unusual,  evidence  far 
more  conclusive  than  the  first.  Beyond  it,  at  the 
foot  of  the  same  street,  was  the  third — and  testi- 
mony final.  For  by  the  law  of  gregarious  instinct 
which  made  its  existence  possible,  the  town  had 
three  centres  of  interest,  three  areas  of  convoca- 
tion— and  three  alone.  In  the  beginning  it  was  so. 
To  the  end  it  would  so  remain.  A  main  street,  a 
forum  it  had — and  now  was  empty.  A  sanctuary 
stood  hard  by — and  was  likewise  forgotten.  The 
third  remained:  its  door  of  egress  or  of  ingress,  its 
thread  of  communication  with  the  world  that 
throbbed  beyond  its  distant  horizon  line.  If 
life  remained  within  its  limits  of  necessity  it  must 
there  be  found.  There  at  last  this  day  it  was 
found. 

For  at  the  single  railway  station  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  main  street  a  crowd  was  gathered;  a 
crowd  that  had  been  congregated  for  long,  that 
apparently  took  no  note  of  passing  time.  Almost 
since  break  of  day  on  that  winter  morning  some  of 
its  individuals  had  been  present.  For  an  hour  now 
it  had  stood  complete:  a  composite  of  practically 
every  man  and  woman  and  child  in  the  place.  As 
no  fantastic  amusement  could  have  brought  them 


154  The  Quest  Eternal 

they  were  there;  for  Deacon  Brady,  bewhiskered 
and  dignified,  president  of  the  Cedar  County  Bank 
and — not  excepting  the  minister — first  in  church 
command,  was  present;  his  black  frock  coat  but- 
toned tight,  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast.  As 
no  religious  rite  could  have  commanded  their  pres- 
ence they  were  there ;  for  Franz  Mueller,  the  bow- 
legged  agnostic,  stood  in  the  front  ranks,  the  smoke 
from  his  long  pipe  curling  up  toward  the  grey  sky. 
As  humanity  responds  to  nothing  but  the  horrible 
they  had  responded :  forgetting  each  their  ordinary 
affairs  of  life,  unsettled  each  from  his  individual 
rut,  obeying  blindly  an  instinct  that  had  whispered 
the  single  mandate — "come." 

Yet  from  whence  the  voice  that  had  first  begun 
that  lone  cry  had  evolved,  they  scarcely  knew. 
Early  in  the  morning  of  the  previous  day,  the  big 
doctor  had  received  a  telegram ;  a  message  that  had 
turned  white  the  face  of  Loomis,  the  station  agent, 
as  he  wrote  it  down — and  a  few  idlers  saw  the 
change.  Later,  very  shortly  thereafter,  the  boy 
who  did  chores  for  Treadway  had  mounted  a  bron- 
cho and  ridden  like  mad  out  into  the  country  in  the 
direction  of  a  certain  farm.  And  this  same  yellow 
paper  was  in  the  boy's  hat  when  he  thundered  away. 
A  few  who  watched  had  seen  him  place  it  there. 
Later  still,  as  much  later  as  it  takes  a  horse  to  cover 
twenty  odd  miles  and  another  to  return  the  same 
distance,  a  youth  with  a  club-foot  had  left  his  steam- 


Life's  Wheel,  Relentless  155 

ing  mount  at  the  one  livery  and  gone  straight  to 
the  doctor's  office.  Not  a  few,  but  many,  had  seen 
him  this  time,  for  news  of  the  unusual  had  spread. 
For  an  hour  thereafter  there  was  no  move;  then  at 
last,  when  patience  was  all  but  exhausted,  a  few 
minutes  before  the  departure  of  the  single  daily 
train  east,  Treadway  had  emerged  and,  all  in  rusty, 
old-fashioned  black,  an  antiquated  grip  in  his  hand, 
had  lumbered  down  toward  the  station.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  action  at  last,  action  after  apathy,  and 
rapidly  as  the  doctor  moved  the  curious  went  faster. 
By  side  streets  they  went  and  when  out  of  sight  ran. 
At  the  station  they  crowded  the  tiny  waiting  room 
and  overflowed  upon  the  platform:  wide-eyed, 
wide-eared,  alert  with  suspicion.  When  the  travel- 
ler arrived  silence  fell;  but  fifty  pairs  of  eyes 
focused  upon  his  every  movement.  Even  had  he  dis- 
simulated they  would  have  guessed  his  mission — 
but  he  did  not  dissimulate.  In  the  presence  of  all 
he  bought  a  ticket.  Oblivious,  apparently,  of  their 
presence  he  wrote  a  telegram  which  they  who  were 
standing  near  read — and  almost  forgot  to  breathe. 
Then  at  last  the  train  pulled  out;  but  before  it  had 
vanished  over  the  rolling  prairie,  almost  ere  the 
one  man  whose  presence  had  held  them  silent  had 
passed  beyond  hearing,  what  the  few  who  had 
spied  had  learned,  every  person  present  knew.  Ten 
minutes  later  every  human  being  in  the  town  as 
well  knew;  for  that  telegram  of  few  words  had 


156  The  Quest  Eternal 

been  addressed  to  the  city,  Sioux  Ridge,  and  was  of 
one  sentence : 

"Prepare  body  of  McLeod  for  removal. 

"S.  Treadway." 

This  the  first  sensation,  seemingly  sufficient  in  the 
sleepy  town  to  fill  the  day.  Yet  all  the  time  another 
was  brewing,  and  ere  the  passage  of  an  hour  broke. 
For  human  nature  can  bear  so  much  and  so  much 
only.  Back  to  town  on  a  weary  little  mustang  came 
a  red-headed  Irish  boy  of  the  name  of  Flanagan. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  found  himself  the 
centre  of  attraction,  the  observed  of  all  observers. 
For  him  to  keep  silence  then  was  to  expect  water 
to  course  up  hill.  Before  he  had  reached  the  livery 
barn  the  contents  of  that  first  message  was  news  as 
common  as  was  now  the  purport  of  the  second. 
But  this  time  something  that  was  almost  a  hush  fell 
upon  the  little  town  at  the  revelation,  something 
that  was  akin  to  awe:  the  hush  which  follows  a 
tragedy  which  comes  very  near  to  our  own  hearth- 
stones. For  not  only  was  Andrew  McLeod  dead 
as  they  already  knew;  but  beyond  this,  revelation 
unexpected,  thing  of  gripping  horror,  a  murderer 
and  suicide  as  well ! 

***** 

Meantime,  in  the  little  parsonage  on  the  rear  of 
the  same  lot  where  fronted  the  church,  another 
drama  had  been  taking  place.  Straight  from  the 


Life's  Wheel,  Relentless  157 

doctor's  office  went  the  youth  with  the  club-foot, 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and 
pressed  the  bell  button  beside  the  front  door.  An- 
swering came  a  faint  purring  sound  from  a  care- 
fully muffled  gong;  and,  a  moment  later,  a  timid 
little  woman  in  a  calico  gown. 

"Mr.  Curtis,  if  you  please,"  explained  the  visitor, 
his  hat  of  soft  felt  dangling  from  his  hand. 

The  little  woman  opened  the  door  wider  as  if  to 
admit  the  other;  of  a  sudden  remembered  and 
swung  it  back  as  before. 

"This  is  Saturday,  you  know,"  she  explained  in  a 
voice  reduced  almost  to  a  whisper,  "and  Mr.  Curtis 
is  preparing  his  sermon  for  to-morrow.  Fm  afraid 
he  won't  be  able  to  see  you." 

"I  must  see  him."  It  was  neither  aggression  nor 
dominance  but  the  insistence  of  one  who  was  uncon- 
scious of  self.  "Tell  him,  please,  I  must  see  him." 

The  little  woman  hesitated,  fumbling  nervously 
the  while  with  the  sleeves  of  her  gown.  "I'm 
sorry" — it  was  an  appeal — "but  he  gave  positive  in- 
structions." 

"Where  may  I  find  him,  please?" 

"Upstairs,  the  first  door  to  the  left."  In  the  voice 
was  relief  positive.  "Just  tap  on  the  door." 

Up  the  stairs  went  the  youth,  trying  to  do  so 
quietly  but  failing  utterly  with  his  clumsy  boot.  At 
the  door  indicated  he  paused,  his  hat  still  in  his 
hand.  He  knocked. 


158  The  Quest  Eternal 

For  fully  half  a  minute  there  was  no  response,  no 
sound  even  from  within.  Then  came  action.  A 
chair  creaked  on  an  uncarpeted  floor,  the  soft  pat 
of  slippers  sounded  nearer  and  nearer,  a  key  turned 
and,  in  the  aperture  of  the  doorway  appeared  a 
figure,  very  tall  and  very  black,  and  very  forbidding. 

"Rev.  Curtis?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  but  I'd  like 
to  speak  with  you  a  moment." 

A  keen  look  from  out  the  minister's  eyes,  a  look 
of  recognition,  then :  "I'm  very  busy  this  morning," 
sharply,  seemingly  unjustifiedly  sharply,  "I  think 
perhaps  Mrs.  Curtis " 

"I  must  speak  with  you  or  I  wouldn't  have 
called." 

While  another  half  minute  gathered  into  the  past 
the  two  looked  at  each  other,  eye  to  eye;  then  with- 
out another  word  the  door  was  opened  and  closed 
and  they  both  stood  within. 

Unconscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  unconscious 
that  he  had  not  been  requested  so  to  do,  the  new- 
comer took  a  seat. 

"My  name  is  McLeod,  Robert  McLeod,"  he  said 
without  preface,  "and  I  came  to  ask  you  to — say 
something  at  my  father's  funeral.  It'll  be  to-mor- 
row morning,  just  after  the  train  comes  in." 

Throughout  the  explanation  the  other  had  not 
moved.  Very  erect,  very  alien  in  this  setting  he 


Life's  Wheel,   Relentless  159 

stood  just  inside  the  door;  his  hands  and  smooth- 
shaven  face  white  against  his  clerical  black.  At 
the  close  he  did  not  stir,  but  if  possible  his  face 
seemed  paler  than  before. 

"Your  father  was  Andrew  McLeod?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  live  twenty  miles  or  so  out  in  the  coun- 
try?" 

"Yes,  again." 

One  by  one  the  minister's  hands  lifted,  locked 
across  his  chest. 

"Why,  please,  is  the  funeral  to  be  to-morrow  after 
train  time?  What  has  the  train  to  do  with  it?" 

"The  body  will  be  brought  in  the  morning  from 
the  city,  sir.  Dr.  Treadway  has  gone  to  bring  it." 

"And  how  did  he  happen  to  die  there,  away  from 
home?" 

Silence. 

"You're  keeping  something  back  from  me," 
sharply,  "something  I  should  know.  Tell  me  what 
it  is." 

"You're  mistaken,  sir.  I'm  not  trying  to  conceal 
anything.  I  merely — preferred  not  to  be  the  one 
to  tell."  The  hat  in  the  visitor's  hand  revolved 
half  about,  and  went  still.  "He  killed  a  certain 
man  in  the  city  and  suicided.  He  was  insane,  I 
think." 

Into  the  white  face  of  the  minister  there  crept  a 
trace  of  red;  then  as  it  had  come  retreated. 


160  The  Quest  Eternal 

"You  ask  me  to — say  something  at  the  funeral 
of  a  criminal  and  a  suicide?  It's  this  you  want?" 

"My  father  is  dead,  sir." 

"You  think  that  should  condone  everything, 
should  make  me  do  what  you  ask?" 

"You  are  a  minister,  Mr.  Curtis." 

"And  in  consequence  I  must  overlook  crime — and 
the  past." 

Silence  absolute  as  death. 

"Answer  me." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  neither  stand  in  judg- 
ment nor  in  defence." 

For  the  first  time  the  minister  moved.  A  step, 
and  another  he  came  forward,  until  he  almost 
touched  the  visitor;  halted  looking  down. 

"I  hadn't  intended  saying  anything  unkind,"  he 
began  swiftly,  "but  although  I'm,  as  you  say,  a 
minister,  I'm  nevertheless  a  human  being."  His 
hands  locked  as  before  across  his  breast;  then  un- 
consciously went  free.  "I  knew  you  before  you 
introduced  yourself,  and  I  remember  your  father. 
For  five  years  I've  been  the  pastor  of  the  only 
church  hereabout.  In  all  that  time  he  was  never 
inside  the  walls  of  that  church.  When  I  first  came 
I  asked  him  to  attend,  and  he  refused.  I  asked  him 
again,  and  he  called  me  a  meddler.  I  asked  him 
the  third  time — and  then  I  asked  no  more."  The 
voice  halted  in  a  meaning  pause;  a  pause  more  im- 
pressive than  words.  "You  recall  that  last  time. 


Life's  Wheel,  Relentless  161 

I  went  clear  out  to  the  farm  to  see  him,  and  you 
were  present  at  the  meeting.  You  remember  what 
he  said." 

"He  said  there  was  no  God,"  monotonously,  "and 
gave  in  evidence  his  own  life." 

"He  blasphemed  and  cursed  God — and  to  me." 

"Yes." 

"And  still  with  that  in  mind,  merely  because  he  is 
dead,  you  ask  me,  a  servant  of  the  God  he  despised,, 
to  give  him  Christian  burial  1" 

Around  and  around  in  his  lap  went  the  visitor's 
hat.  That  was  all. 

"I  repeat  and  still  you  ask  this." 

"No.  I  asked  something  different.  I  did  not 
mention  God  or  Christian  burial." 

The  lips  of  the  minister  opened  to  speak;  then 
with  an  effort  he  checked  himself.  Once  more  the 
room  became  very  still ;  as  still  as  the  empty  prairie 
itself.  At  last  of  a  sudden  the  man  stiffened.  He 
drew  back  a  step. 

"I  can't  see  that  there's  anything  more  to  be  said," 
he  voiced  formally,  repressedly.  "I  wish  you  good- 
morning." 

For  a  moment  the  boy  did  not  stir;  but  the  hat 
in  his  hand  ceased  its  motion  and  a  trace  of  red 
crept  up,  up  his  cheek  to  his  forehead.  Then  he 
too  arose  and  stood  facing  the  other ;  not  doggedly 
nor  defiantly,  but  nevertheless  without  a  trace  of 
inequality  or  of  self-consciousness. 


1 62  The  Quest  Eternal 

"You  refuse  the  little  I  ask,  Mr.  Curtis?"  he  said. 

"I  cannot  do  otherwise." 

Slowly  the  boy's  glance  fell.  Equally  slowly, 
without  a  backward  glance  or  another  word,  he 
started  to  leave.  A  step  he  took ;  another,  and  an- 
other. His  hand  was  upon  the  knob  of  the  door 
before  he  halted.  Then  he  turned.  The  eyes  of 
the  two  met. 

"For  my  father  or  for  myself  I  wouldn't  ask  you 
again,  Mr.  Curtis,"  he  said.  "I  don't  do  so  now; 
but  there's  another  concerned — a  girl.  I  mean  Peg 
Stanton.  My  father  was  good  to  her  always.  She 
was  fond  of  him.  She's  been  told  nothing,  knows 
nothing  of  what's  happened.  She  thinks  you'll  do 
what  I  asked.  Unless  you  do  she'll  want  to  know 
why  and  I'll  have  to  tell  her — to  prevent  her  find- 
ing out  elsewhere.  I  don't  want  her  to  know,  Mr. 
Curtis;  I'd  give  anything,  do  anything  to  keep  her 
ignorant.  For  her  sake  alone  won't  you  forget?" 
He  had  come  back  a  step  as  he  spoke,  returned  in- 
voluntarily. Now  again  he  halted  looking  at  the 
other  in  a  petition  no  pain  or  necessity  could  have 
made  him  reveal  for  himself.  "If  there  were  some 
one  else  I  could  go  to  I  wouldn't  trouble  you;  but 
there  is  no  one  else.  For  Peg's  sake  alone  won't 
you  forget?" 

For  the  third  time  in  that  brief  drama  silence  came 
upon  them;  silence  complete  as  at  the  day  of  judg- 
ment, silence  as  relentless  as  fate  herself.  Then 


Life's  Wheel,  Relentless  163 

breaking  it,  freeing  himself  from  it,  the  minister 
stirred.  Hastily,  jerkily  he  turned,  made  his  way 
back  to  his  desk  and  fumbled  with  the  papers  before 
him. 

"No,"  he  said  tensely,  "my  decision  was  final.  I 
cannot." 

Still  a  moment  longer  the  visitor  stood  gazing  at 
him,  his  boyish  face  of  a  sudden  a  blank.  Then 
he  too  turned  away;  and  an  instant  later  the  door 
closed  softly  behind  him. 


But  now  as  the  crowd  surged  in  and  about  the 
tiny  frame  station  all  this  was  past  history;  for- 
gotten in  the  greater  interest  of  the  present,  lost  in 
the  sea  of  anticipation.  Though  the  details  of  the 
tragedy  had  come  singly,  all,  to  the  minutest,  were 
eventually  known.  From  constant  discussing  they 
had  even  ceased  to  bring  a  thrill  when  mentioned. 
It  was  not  to  gather  news  but  to  see  with  their  own 
eyes  that  this  people  had  gathered  this  day.  It  was 
to  see  that  they  had  waited  long  after  church  time, 
long  after  they  learned  that  the  train  was  very  late. 
For  the  light  engines,  obsolete  in  the  east,  that  the 
road  assigned  to  prairie  traffic  ever  proved  inade- 
quate in  time  of  storm  or  wind;  and  a  wind  raw  and 
heavy  blew  straight  from  the  northwest  now,  blew 
almost  without  interruption  through  the  tiny  town 
as  well.  In  its  path  the  crowd  shivered  and  moved 


164  The  Quest  Eternal 

about  restlessly.  The  waiting  room  was  crowded 
to  overflowing;  but  few  could  find  refuge  therein. 
Back  and  forth  the  majority  vibrated,  swung  the 
length  of  the  platform  and  onto  the  smooth  road- 
bed beyond;  yet  ever  they  waited,  waited  for  the 
appearance  of  the  black  cloud  of  smoke  on  the  grey 
sky  to  the  east  that  meant  the  fulfilment  of  promise. 
And  through  it  all  two  other  humans,  not  of  the 
curious,  waited  likewise.  At  the  side  of  the  sta- 
tion, the  side  most  sheltered  from  the  wind,  was  a 
mud-spattered  road  wagon  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
woolly-coated  bronchos.  It  was  backed  into  posi- 
tion significantly,  its  rear  wheels  touching  the  brick 
platform,  the  end  gate  down  and  dangling  from  its 
hinges  in  the  wind.  The  single  seat  was  moved 
far  forward  leaving  the  long  bed  free.  No  need  to 
tell  the  purpose  of  the  vehicle  there.  None  other 
was  present  and  its  solitary  significance  was  patent 
to  all.  Even  had  it  been  otherwise,  however,  the 
identity  of  the  two  occupants  of  the  single  seat  gave 
testimony  final.  For  though  the  boy  and  girl  who 
sat  thereon  had  come  early  neither  had  descended 
to  mingle  with  the  assembled  crowd.  Save  the 
station  agent  alone  none  had  approached  them. 
Every  staring  man  and  child  knew  them,  yet  not 
one  had  volunteered  either  sympathy  or  aid. 
Though  no  word  was  spoken  their  hostility  was 
palpable  as  the  December  cold  all  surrounding.  Al- 
ready in  the  forum  and  the  homes  adjoining  they 


Life's  Wheel,   Relentless  165 

had  been  tried  and  condemned;  ostracised  in  life 
like  the  unclean.  They  had  come  to  see,  these 
people,  curiosity  had  dominated ;  but  understanding 
and  tolerance  were  far  as  the  ends  of  the  earth 
from  their  ken.  They  had  passed  sentence,  and  by 
it  the  two  humans  in  the  old  road  wagon  had  be- 
come aliens  in  their  midst.  By  it  likewise  they 
would  so  remain  for  the  space  of  a  generation. 

This  the  boy  had  known  the  afternoon  preceding 
as  the  door  of  the  parsonage  study  closed  behind 
him.  This  he  had  foreseen  as  by  the  light  of  a 
smoking  lantern  he  had  dug  a  grave  beside  the 
grave  of  his  mother  in  the  farmyard  back  of  the 
house.  The  girl  had  not  believed  so  then,  though 
the  other  had  told  her  all;  all  to  the  last  bitter  truth, 
that,  as  he  had  said,  she  might  not  hear  the  story 
first  from  another.  But  she  too  knew  better  now, 
knew  the  moment  she  had  seen  that  silent  assembled 
crowd  that  stared  at  her  with  closed  lips.  Verily 
a  curse  is  not  always  spoken  in  words.  One  voice- 
less, passive,  is  far  more  potent,  its  refinement. 

Thus  the  time  dragged  by.  Bit  by  bit  the  grey 
sky  had  thickened.  In  sympathy  the  light  of  mid- 
day dimmed.  At  last  on  the  tiled  roof  of  the  sta- 
tion there  had  sounded  a  pattering  that  grew  louder 
and  louder.  Upon  the  brown  earth  appeared  tiny 
dots  of  white.  It  was  the  storm  at  last,  the  storm 
that  had  threatened  all  day;  not  snow  but  sleet 
which,  driven  by  the  wind,  cut  like  tiny  shot.  Facing 


1 66  The  Quest  Eternal 

it  the  bronchos  shook  their  heads  restlessly  and 
pawed  intermittently  at  the  frozen  earth.  Minute 
by  minute  it  augmented,  grew  thicker  until  the  sky 
was  streaked  with  fairy  lines  of  slanting  white,  until 
the  horizon  was  bounded  not  by  miles  but  by  rods. 
Under  its  advent  the  crowd  forgot  time,  almost 
forgot  place;  became  temporarily  unconscious  of  all 
save  physical  discomfort.  Yet  still  they  waited  dog- 
gedly, as  animals  wait;  waited  until  patience  re- 
ceived its  reward.  For  of  a  sudden,  ere  warning 
had  been  given,  with  a  rush  of  displaced  air  and  a 
grinding  roar,  straight  through  the  slanting  grey 
wall  came  the  dark  shape  of  the  belated  train — 
and  the  end  was  at  hand. 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  boy  moved.  With  the 
effort  of  one  stiff  from  the  long  cold  wait  he  de- 
scended. A  crowd  barred  his  way,  a  crowd  packed 
tight  as  a  driven  wedge;  and  without  attempting 
to  force  a  path  he  made  a  detour  around.  As  he 
did  so,  with  a  grating  of  rusty  iron,  the  door  of  the 
baggage  car  slid  open  and,  as  though  facing  the 
lens  of  a  camera,  the  eyes  of  the  multitude  were 
focussed  upon  the  aperture.  Had  the  train  been 
made  up  of  that  single  car  they  would  not  at  that 
time  have  noticed  the  fact.  Had  a  regiment  alighted 
from  the  rear  coaches  which  were  actually  present 
they  would  not  have  known.  For  with  the  opening 
of  the  door  the  figures  of  two  men  came  to  view: 
one,  the  baggageman  in  overalls  and  jumper,  the 


Life's  Wheel,   Relentless  167 

other — Treadway  in  his  rusty  black — and  between 
them  another  object,  the  thing  expected:  a  rough 
box  of  unpainted  pine,  glaring  white  against  the 
dark  background. 

Around  the  crowd,  unconsciously  limping,  went 
the  boy  and  made  his  way  to  the  door.  Several 
times  his  way  was  barred  by  spectators  and  in  each 
instance  he  apologised  for  crowding  as  he  slipped 
by.  Clumsily,  with  heavy  deliberation,  the  big 
doctor  had  descended  to  the  platform  and  as  the 
newcomer  arrived,  nodded;  but  neither  spoke. 
Meanwhile  the  station  agent,  shirt-sleeved  in  spite 
of  the  cold,  had  elbowed  his  way  to  them.  It  was 
the  signal  for  action.  Slowly  the  rough,  oblong 
box  protruded  from  the  aperture.  Heretofore  not 
a  word  had  been  spoken.  To  an  individual  the 
crowd  had  remained  silent  as  though  frozen  in  their 
places.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  somewhere  in  the  rear, 
a  tongue  loosened.  Above  the  noise  of  the  wind 
and  the  storm  there  sounded  a  hiss;  distinct,  venom- 
ous, contagious.  It  was  the  flame  to  powder,  the 
tiny  rift  that  preceded  a  flood.  Instantly  not  one 
but  a  hundred  mouths  caught  the  contagion.  The 
verdict  of  the  swarm  found  voice.  Biting,  scorch- 
ing, horrible  it  rose  and  augmented  and  swelled 
until  every  other  sound  was  drowned.  Answering, 
with  an  unconscious  muffled  curse,  Treadway 
turned,  his  heavy  face  of  a  sudden  congested,  his 
great  shoulders  squared;  but  ere  he  could  speak  a 


1 68  The  Quest  Eternal 

hand  was  laid  insistently  on  his,  the  face  of  Bob 
McLeod  was  staring  into  his  face. 

"Don't,"  said  the  boy,  "it'll  only  make  matters 
worse."  His  fingers  were  gripping  like  a  vise,  but 
of  that  he  was  unconscious.  "Let's  get  away,  quick." 

A  moment  Treadway  hesitated,  breathing  hard; 
but  the  boy  was  already  back  at  work  and  an  in- 
stinctive something  which  he  did  not  pause  to  anal- 
yse made  the  big  man  obey. 

The  box  was  clear  of  the  car  now  and  the  four 
started  with  it  across  the  platform  to  the  waiting 
wagon.  Barring  their  way  was  the  crowd  and 
against  it  like  a  live  wall  the  burden  advanced  and 
halted.  For  the  second  time  a  hiss  arose;  bitterer 
than  the  first,  more  deadly  hostile — and  again  the 
face  of  Treadway  grew  livid.  But  the  something 
which  had  restrained  him  before,  the  something  in- 
definitely compelling,  held  him  silent  and  he  waited. 

A  quarter  minute  they  remained  there  so,  motion- 
less, in  a  real  drama  tense  as  the  play;  then  inevi- 
tably came  the  reaction  and  silence  fell.  Entering 
it,  dominating  it,  a  voice  sounded :  in  the  first  words 
which  had  been  spoken  aloud. 

"Make  way  ahead,  please,"  it  said.  There  was  no 
force  used,  no  menace,  no  petition;  just  those  four 
words,  spoken  even  and  slow:  "Make  way  ahead, 
please." 

It  was  the  crisis,  the  climax,  the  time  of  compli- 
ance or  of  defiance ;  but  no  one  stirred.  A  moment 


Life's  Wheel,  Relentless  169 

passed  wherein  there  was  no  sound  save  the  patter 
of  the  storm.  Then  once  more,  breaking  it,  even 
as  before,  for  the  second  time  repeated,  the  same 
voice  spoke  : 

"Room,  please,  ahead.    Make  room." 

For  still  a  moment  there  was  no  response;  then 
of  a  sudden,  obeying  the  same  influence  that  had 
held  the  doctor  silent,  a  man  fair  in  the  path  drew 
back.  Opposite  him  another  followed  his  example, 
and  another,  and  another.  It  was  the  beginning  of 
the  end,  the  finale  ere  the  dropping  of  the  curtain. 
Into  the  vacant  space  moved  the  four  with  their 
load.  Before  them,  without  a  murmur,  the  crowd 
made  way.  With  a  dull  grind  the  box  slid  into  the 
wagon  bed,  the  end  gate  snapped  into  place,  the 
two  pall  bearers  mounted  with  the  waiting  girl  to 
the  single  seat  and,  ere  the  motley  spectators  had 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  all  was  over,  ere  the 
train  had  resumed  its  belated  journey  to  the  west, 
the  grey  sleet  wall  had  swallowed  the  retreating 
equipage  from  view. 

Thus,  silently  as  he  had  entered  the  passing  show, 
Andrew  McLeod  departed  from  its  realm.  As 
his  father  and  his  father's  father  had  sunk  beneath 
the  surface  leaving  no  trace  behind,  so  he  had  gone. 
In  the  ever-repeating  cycle  of  life,  another  revolu- 
tion was  complete. 

But  the  wheel  which  had  borne  and  broken  him  on 
its  way  still  moved  relentlessly  on. 


CHAPTER  XII 

SACRIFICE 

NIGHT  had  come,  night  following  that  dreary  grey 
December  Sunday.  Upon  the  face  of  prairie  the 
snow  was  still  falling,  steadily  as  it  had  done  since 
noontime.  Under  its  blanket  the  earth  stretched 
uniform  white;  white  even  over  a  roughly  rounded 
mound  that,  mushroom  like,  had  sprung  up  within 
the  last  day  in  the  dooryard  just  back  of  the  house. 

Within  the  McLeod  home  a  boy  of  sixteen  and  a 
girl  a  bit  younger  were  alone.  Dr.  Treadway,  the 
sole  participant  in  the  drama  of  that  day,  was  gone. 
All  in  all  it  was  an  end  and  a  starting  point,  a  clos- 
ing chapter  and  the  introduction  to  a  sequel.  Of 
the  former,  the  end,  one,  the  girl,  was  thinking. 
In  the  semi-darkness  of  the  single  living  room  she 
•was  crying;  softly,  unashamed — crying  for  the  first 
time  that  day,  crying  as  no  power  could  have  made 
her  do  in  the  presence  of  another  spectator.  Op- 
posite her,  yet  very  near,  so  near  he  could  have 
touched  her  had  he  wished,  the  boy  sat  silent,  his 
eyes  on  the  glow  from  the  draft  of  the  sheet-iron 
stove;  thinking,  thinking — and  not  of  the  end  but 
of  the  sequel. 

This  the  setting  and  these  the  actors  that  winter 


Sacrifice  171 

night  that  closed  the  day  of  tragedy.  For  minutes 
neither  had  spoken,  neither  had  thought  of  speech. 
For  the  time  being  there  seemed  nothing  to  say,  no 
need  of  anything  save  the  mute  comradery  of  mu- 
tual presence,  of  mutual  understanding.  As  they 
sat  there  so,  time  drifted  by,  time  which  to  them 
meant  nothing.  Not  until  the  fire  in  the  stove 
burned  low,  until  the  out-door  chill  advanced  in- 
sistent through  the  walls  of  the  illy  built  house, 
was  there  action.  Then  at  last  the  boy  aroused. 
From  a  hod  of  soft  coal  in  the  corner  he  replenished 
the  fire  and  closed  the  stove  door  quietly.  Equally 
quietly,  quietly  as  he  did  everything,  he  returned  to 
his  place;  but  not  as  before — to  muse.  Instead  his 
gaze  went  to  his  companion,  halted  thoughtfully. 
She  was  still  crying.  At  intervals  her  whole  body 
trembled  with  a  sob  that  for  his  sake  she  repressed 
until  it  was  soundless. 

"Peg,"  he  said  gently. 

The  girl  looked  up,  her  eyes  moist,  her  throat 
a-tremble. 

"Don't,  Peg."  It  was  not  authority  or  criticism, 
but  suggestion.  "Don't  cry  any  more,  please.  It's 
useless  absolutely." 

The  girl  did  not  answer.    He  had  not  expected  an 


answer, 
it 


The  past  is  complete  and  gone."  The  voice  was 
even,  artfully  even.  "Whatever  we  may  do  won't 
make  it  as  we  wish.  When  we  regret  something  we 


IJ2  The  Quest  Eternal 

never  could  have  helped  we're — wrong.  Animals 
don't  know  the  meaning  of  regret  and  animals  are 
nearer  to  nature  than  man."  He  shifted  in  his 
place  unconsciously.  "Let's  forget  the  past,  you 
and  I,  and  live  the  present.  Let's  begin  now." 

Still  no  answer;  but  bit  by  bit  the  tears  were  ceas- 
ing. Less  and  less  frequently  came  the  sobs. 

"I  don't  believe  nature  ever  intended  us  to  cry 
over  the  past,"  wandered  on  the  speaker,  "or  to 
worry  over  it.  She  makes  it  too  irrevocable. 
Human  beings  alone  are  the  animals  that  cry  and 
they've  made  themselves  so.  I  believe  it's  wrong 
to  regret  what  already  is;  something  tells  me  it's 
wrong.  It's  so  because  it's  useless — and  worse. 
Can't  you  forget,  Peg?  Won't  you?" 

Tears  were  still  in  the  girl's  dark  eyes,  tears  that 
she  made  no  effort  to  wipe  away;  but  they  were 
drying  now. 

"I'll— try,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know,  but  I'll 
try." 

For  a  space  the  boy  said  nothing;  but  though  his 
face  was  turned  away,  his  eyes  never  left  that  of  the 
girl  opposite.  Not  until  the  storm  was  over,  until 
the  brown  eyes  he  was  watching  were  dry  again  as 
his  own,  did  he  speak.  Then  he  looked  her  openly, 
compellingly. 

"Peg,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  say  something  to  you 
to-night.  Will  you  listen?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  intently.    It  was  not  usual 


Sacrifice  173 

for  this  silent  youth  to  offer  preface  of  this  kind. 
It  was  not  usual  for  him  to  talk  at  all. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"And  you  won't  interrupt  me  until  I  get  through, 
no  matter  what  I  say?" 

Wonder  on  wonder;  but  the  girl  did  not  com- 
ment thereat.  They  were  alike  in  some  ways,  these 
two. 

"No,  I'll  not  interrupt,  if  you  request  it." 

Apparently  the  boy  was  satisfied.  His  gaze 
dropped,  almost  consciously. 

"What  I  have  to  say  then  is  this.  We're  not 
children  any  longer,  either  of  us.  We're  sixteen — 
and  can't  live  here  any  more  in  the  way  we've  been 
doing."  He  glanced  up  quickly,  anticipating  the 
look  he  met.  Then  his  eyes  dropped  as  before.  "I 
don't  need  to  tell  you  why.  You  know  already.. 
We're  not  really  brother  and  sister  and  we  may  as 
well  recognise  the  fact.  You've  got  to  go  away, 
to  school,  Peg." 

Up  went  his  eyes  again,  up  to  meet  the  refusal  he 
knew  he  would  encounter,  the  defiance  for  the 
opinion  of  the  world  he  knew  he  would  be  com- 
pelled to  combat.  He  was  not  disappointed. 

"I  won't  do  anything  of  the  kind,"  flamed  the  girl. 

«T » 

"Peg!" 

"I  tell  you  I  won't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"You  promised  me  not  to  interrupt.'* 


174  The  Quest  Eternal 

"But  I  won't!" 

"You  promised " 

Silence,  a  truce  of  battle ;  then  once  more  the  voice 
of  the  boy : 

"I  had  a  talk  with  Dr.  Treadway  this  afternoon 
and  he  said  the  same  thing.  We  simply  can't  go 
on  so;  and  even  if  we  could  afford  to  hire  a  woman 
to  come  and  live  with  us  we  couldn't  get  one.  No 
woman  who  knew  of  to-day  would  come.  She'd  be 
afraid  to.  But  anyway  that  doesn't  make  any  dif- 
ference. Father  meant  you  to  go  soon  and  I  want 
it,  too.  You'll  be  famous  some  day  if  you  have  a 
chance.  I  know  so  and  you  know  so.  It  sounds 
foolish  to  talk  that  way  now,  but  you've  got  it  in 
you.  You've  got  to  go  and  go  soon,  Peg.  You've 
simply  got  to." 

The  room  became  silent  save  for  the  swish  of  the 
storm  without;  the  unceasing  drone  of  a  prairie 
blizzard.  Breaking  it  at  last  the  girl  stirred  in  her 
seat. 

"Is  that  all  you  wish  to  say?"  she  queried. 

"All  for  the  present,  I  guess." 

Temporarily  the  past,  the  irrevocable  past,  had 
lost  its  grip.  Both  now  alike  were  staring  into  the 
future. 

"And  I  can — interrupt?" 

"Yes." 

"I  won't  go,  then.  I  won't.  If  there  isn't  a  soul 
in  the  country  who'll  speak  to  us  or  look  at  us  I 


Sacrifice  1 75 

won't.  The  first  to  leave  this  place  is  you.  I'm  not 
the  one  who's  simply  got  to  go,  but  you." 

No  answer. 

"Ever  since  I  came  here  eight  years  ago,"  rushed 
on  the  girl,  "you're  been  going  away  to  see  a  big 
doctor;  and  you  haven't  gone  yet.  You'll  keep  put- 
ting it  off  and  off  until  you'll  be  too  late,  and  be — 
lame  always.  It's  a  shame  to  even  talk  about  my 
going  away  while  you're  as  you  are  now." 

The  soft-coal  heater  had  grown  very  hot  and,  in- 
terrupting, the  boy  arose  and  closed  the  draft.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  heat  which  made  his  face  a  shade 
darker  than  normal  when  he  returned.  Leastways 
he  said  nothing  and  the  girl  was  too  absorbed  to 
notice. 

"You'd  planned  on  going  now  and  I  want  you  to 
go  anyway.  You  can  sell  something,  anything  and 
get  the  money.  I'll  stay  here  while  you're  gone 
and  feed  the  stock  and  take  care  of  things.  I'm 
not  afraid  to  be  alone.  It's  you  who  must  go  right 
away.  You  simply  must,  Bob." 

The  sudden  colour  had  left  the  listener's  face  ere 
this;  but  still  he  said  nothing.  He  merely  sat  as 
before,  motionless,  waiting. 

In  her  place  the  girl  stirred  restlessly,  tensely. 
Farther  and  farther  from  her  memory  had  lapsed 
the  events  of  the  afternoon.  Nearer  and  nearer, 
more  vitally  real,  became  the  future  of  her  dreams. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  stubborn,  Bob,  or  foolish," 


176  The  Quest  Eternal 

she  resumed,  "and  I'd  be  both  if  I  pretended  that 
I  didn't  want  to  go  sometime,  worse  than  I  want 
anything  else  in  the  world,  worse  these  last  few 
days  than  ever;  but  I  can  wait.  I  can  wait  better 
than  you,  and  I'm  going  to." 

Jerkily,  bit  by  bit,  the  drama  was  moving,  the 
suggestion  the  boy  had  sown  was  bearing  fruit. 
Wise  in  his  day  the  listener  said  nothing;  and  this 
time  the  other  did  not  notice  his  silence.  Instead, 
almost  as  though  she  had  not  paused,  she  began 
anew. 

"After  you  get  back  and  we  have  another  good 
year  or  so  I'll  go,  we'll  both  go,  and  you  can  study 
too.  You  want  to  be  a  doctor  just  as  bad  as  I  want 
to  learn  to  sing.  You've  got  it  in  you  to  be — big 
just  as  much  as  I  have,  more  so.  I'm  ready  to  go, 
more  than  ready,  when  the  time  comes;  but  now — 
you'll  make  me  hate  myself  if  I  go  now." 

The  voice  paused,  the  small  thin  hands  locked  in 
the  girl's  lap,  locked  tight.  Her  lips  twitched. 

"I  know  how  you  feel,  Bob.  I  understand  and  I'll 
never,  never  forget  what  you're  doing.  I'll  al- 
ways— "  of  a  sudden  the  sentence  halted  midway; 
halted  in  an  eloquence  of  silence  the  boy  never  for- 
got, that  by  comparison  made  mere  speech  trite  and 
futile.  For  a  minute  perhaps  it  held,  until  the  sud- 
den storm  it  succeeded  had  passed.  Then  the  boy 
glanced  up.  For  still  a  moment  longer  he  sat  so ; 
deliberate,  old  beyond  his  years — Bob  McLeod  the 


Sacrifice  177 

normal,  not  the  verbose  alien  of  minutes  before. 
It  was  this  Bob  McLeod  who  at  last  spoke. 

"Do  you  know  where  that  lady  you  met  once 
when  you  were  a  little  girl  lives,  Peg?"  he  queried 
bluntly.  "The  one  who  liked  your  singing,  I 
mean." 

"Bob  1"  It  was  not  a  pose,  that  little  cry.  The 
ends  of  the  earth  were  not  farther  separate  than  it 
from  affectation.  "Bob !" 

"Don't  you  remember  her  address,  Peg?  You 
said  you  knew  it  once." 

"I  won't  tell  you,  Bob.  You — oughtn't  to  ask 
me." 

The  boy  smiled.  A  slow  smile.    His  normal  smile. 

"Just  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  then  and  to  see  how 
good  a  memory  you've  got.  Do  you  remember?" 

"You're  trying  to  make  me  forget — that  I 
oughtn't  to  remember  it." 

"You  do  remember,  then?" 

"I  haven't  said  so." 

Again  the  boy  smiled,  a  contagious  smile,  for  it 
was  genuine. 

"When  did  you  write  her  last,  Peg?"  he  queried 
again,  equally  bluntly,  equally  unexpectedly. 

Peg  Stanton  stared,  for  she  was  human.  She 
leaned  forward  in  her  seat.  Her  lips  parted. 

"How  did  you  know  I've  been  writing  her,  Bob 
McLeod?  I  never  told  you — or  any  one.  How 
did  you  ever  guess  it?" 


178  The  Quest  Eternal 

Wrinkles  formed  about  the  boy's  eyes,  wrinkles 
that  are  seldom  seen  surrounding  the  eyes  of  a 
youth  of  sixteen. 

"She's  still  interested  in  you,  is  she;  still  wants 
you  to  come  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Bob."  It  was  defence,  oblivion. 
"Honest  I  don't.  I've  written  her  several  times, 
and  the  letters  never  came  back,  so  I  know  that  she 
got  them.  But  I  never  told  her  my  address  and 
she's  never  answered.  I  don't  know  whether  she 
wants  me  or  not." 

"Perhaps  you  told  her  not  to  answer,  Peg.  May- 
be she  thought  you  didn't  want  any  one  to  know 
that  you  were  writing." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  the  black  eyes  were  very 
bright. 

"Between  you  and  me,  just  between  you  and  me, 
didn't  you  ask  something  of  that  kind,  Peg?" 

It  was  the  crushing  straw.  Human  nature  could 
keep  silence  no  longer. 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  how  you  guessed  it,  but  I 
did."  Of  a  sudden  the  eyes  which  were  so  bright 
a  moment  before  were  dim.  "I  was  afraid  to  know 
for  sure;  afraid  I'd  ask  something  of  you  and  your 
father  that  I  hadn't  ought  to  ask." 

At  last  the  story  was  out,  one  solitary  tale  se- 
lected from  a  countless  multitude  of  repressed 
human  ambitions,  one  single  tiny  spark  of  hope 
laid  bare.  Common  as  life  itself  it  was,  common 


Sacrifice  179 

as  the  desire  to  do  which  throbs  within  the  breast 
of  man  the  evolved ;  but  to  the  speaker  it  was  gigan- 
tic, its  revelation  the  marking  of  an  epoch. 

For  no  sooner  had  she  spoken  than  she  realised 
the  thing  she  had  done,  the  result  the  disclosure 
would  inevitably  bring.  With  the  certainty  came 
contrition  in  a  flood  and  self-abasement.  Over  and 
over  she  had  promised  herself  she  would  not  tell — 
still  she  had  told.  She  had  the  feeling  of  one  who 
has  violated  a  trust — and  in  spirit  she  grovelled. 
With  an  unconscious  little  motion  she  arose.  With 
another  she  came  forward  until  she  stood  beside  the 
boy's  chair.  Then  came  abandon  absolute  and  in- 
stinctively, her  arms  dropped  about  his  neck,  her 
face  pressed  close  to  his  face. 
"Bob,"  she  cried,  "why  did  you  make  me  tell,  why 
did  you  I  I  never  meant  to,  not  if  I  lived  here  until 
I  died.  It's  wicked  of  me,  awfully  wicked,  to  have 
let  you  know  now.  You  can't  afford  to  send  me 
away  and  I'll  never  forgive  myself."  Tears  were 
flowing,  tears  that  moistened  the  other's  cheek, 
tears  that  she  did  not  try  to  repress,  could  not  have 
repressed  had  she  wished.  "Forget  that  I  told  you, 
Bob,  please.  I'll  be  good  if  you  will  and  never, 
never  speak  of  it  again.  I  shouldn't  have  written 
her  at  all,  I  know  that  now,  and  I'll  quit  for  good. 
Forgive  me,  Bob,  please ;  and — and  forget." 
,,  The  voice  ceased  and  into  the  silence,  like  a  live 
thing  wailing,  sprang  the  muffled  swish  of  the 


180  The  Quest  Eternal 

storm;  the  rasp  and  grind  of  myriad  ice  crystals 
borne  on  the  breath  of  the  wind.  But  neither  of 
the  two  humans  there  alone  heard  it,  were  con- 
scious of  it.  What  the  boy  was  thinking  he  alone 
knew;  and  he  gave  no  sign.  He  was  an  old  boy, 
far  older  than  his  years,  and  this  girl  so  near  was 
not  of  his  blood;  but  he  did  not  stir.  Her  arms 
were  still  about  his  neck,  her  soft  cheek  was  pressed 
against  his  cheek;  but  still  he  did  not  move.  The 
blood  of  Scotch  ancestors  flowed  in  the  veins  of 
Robert  McLeod — and  Scotch  blood  is  good  blood. 
Their  future,  the  future  of  this  girl  and  his  own, 
was  still  far  away;  so  far  that  neither  could  more 
than  dream  thereof — and  he  did  not  stir.  Thus 
they  remained,  thus  while  the  minutes  flowed  by, 
thus  until  the  moment  of  abandon  passed  and  the 
girl  too  remembered.  Lingeringly,  hesitant,  she 
withdrew  her  arms.  With  a  feeling  she  had  never 
known  before,  a  feeling  she  did  not  try  to  explain, 
she  drew  back,  free.  To  her  face  came  a  tinge  of 
red;  a  colour  instinctive  as  the  flush  on  an  autumn 
leaf.  Slowly,  different  far  from  the  way  she  had 
come,  she  returned  to  her  place.  The  present  re- 
turned. 

Minutes,  not  moments  this  time,  passed.  Meckan- 
ically  the  boy  got  up  and  replenished  the  Maze; 
mechanically  returned.  For  the  first  time  that  long, 
long  day  he  seemed  very  tired,  and  old.  Save  for 
his  boyish  face  he  was  a  man  mature.  Back  in  his 


Sacrifice  1 8 1 

seat  he  sat  for  a  time  as  at  first,  staring  into  the  red 
of  the  grate.  With  a  motion  that  was  a  positive 
effort  he  aroused. 

"We  understand  each  other  pretty  well,  Peg,"  he 
said  then  slowly,  "so  there's  no  use  of  discussing 
this  again.  It's  settled."  He  glanced  up  prevent- 
ingly,  then  back  again.  "I  know  what  you  have  in 
mind,  but  it's  impossible  now.  I  can't  go  just  yet. 
The  farm's  mortgaged;  and  anyway  there're  a  lot 
of  things  I've  got  to  straighten  out  first.  Besides, 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  a  year  or  so  don't  cut  any 
figure  now.  I  asked  Dr.  Treadway  that  too  to-day 
and  he  said  so.  But  you — "  he  sat  up  straight — 
"there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  go  now. 
There's  every  reason  why  you  should.  I'll  get  the 
money,  you  needn't  worry  about  that.  The  crop 
isn't  all  sold  yet,  you  know.  I  want  you  to  write 
Madame  Ziska  at  once  and  tell  her  you're  coming; 
and  that  from  now  on  you're  going  to  do  exactly 
as  she  says.  Will  you,  Peg?" 

"Bob !"  The  girl's  face  was  in  her  hands,  hid 
from  view.  "Bob !"  She  could  say  nothing  more 
just  then. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  way,"  resumed  the 
boy  gently,  "it  isn't  right.  You'd  do  exactly  the 
same  for  me  if  you  were  in  my  place,  and  you 
know  it.  Won't  you  write  her  as  I  asked — to- 
morrow?" 

Slowly  from  its  retreat  the  girl's  brown  face  came 


1 82  The   Quest  Eternal 

to  view.  She  seemed  almost  old  that  moment, 
older  far  than  the  other  had  ever  seen  her  look. 

"If  I  say  yes  you'll  promise  me  that  it  won't  keep 
you  from  going  too,  that  you'll  leave  just  as  soon 
as  things  get  straightened  out?" 

"Yes,  Peg." 

"And  that  you'll  not  work  too  hard  when  I'm 
gone  and  there's  no  one  to  take  care  of  you?" 

"Yes,"  again,  "I  promise." 

An  affirmative  formed  on  the  girl's  lips;  then 
halted  unspoken.  A  new  thought  sprang  into 
being. 

"You  won't  be  lonesome  when  I'm  gone  and 
you're  all  alone?  You'll  promise  that  too?" 

For  a  second  the  boy  did  not  answer,  sat  like  a 
statue;  then  of  a  sudden  he  smiled,  fair  into  her 
eyes. 

"Won't  I  be  allowed  to  eat,  or  sleep,  or  breathe 
just  because  you're  not  around  to  see  that  I  do  it 
properly?"  he  laughed. 

The  brown  head  tossed.  It  was  almost  convinc- 
ing. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  But  only  a  few  folks  ever  came 
here  before,  and  now  there'll  be  none.  I'm  afraid 
you'll  get  lonesome." 

The  boy  was  still  smiling,  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"I'll  be  too  busy  to  think  about  getting  lone- 
some ;  and  anyway  you'll  write  now  and  then.  You 
will  sometimes,  won't  you,  Peg?" 


Sacrifice  183 

"Bob !"  It  was  capitulation  at  last.  "I'll  write 
you  everything,  every  single  thing." 

"You  haven't  said  yes  yet,  Peg."  The  smile  had 
become  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  then."  The  brown  eyes  were  dancing  now, 
the  dark  face  all  aglow.  "I'll  write  her  to-morrow; 
and — and — "  Of  a  sudden  the  girl  was  upon  her 
feet  and  walking  back  and  forth.  To  keep  still 
longer  was  impossible.  "Oh,  it's  too  good  to  be 
true,  Bob.  I  can't  really  make  myself  believe  it 
yet."  She  halted,  her  whole  young  body  athrob. 
"And  I'll  work,  work;  work  as  I  never  worked  be- 
fore. I  am  getting  grown  up,  as  you  say,  and  I 
realise  that  I  don't  know  anything  now.  But  I've 
got  a  voice,  something  tells  me  I  have ;  and  now — 
that  I'll  have  a  chance " 

The  voice  halted,  the  sentence  incomplete.  Of  a 
sudden  while  she  was  speaking  the  boy  had  arisen 
and  hurriedly,  almost  fumblingly,  was  getting  into 
his  overcoat. 

"Bob,"  digressed  the  girl,  "what's  the  matter?" 

The  boy  did  not  look  at  her,  did  not  pause  in  his 
hurried  movements. 

"Nothing,  much,"  he  lied.  "I  thought  I  heard  a 
noise  from  the  barn."  By  no  possibility  could  be 
have  heard  a  sound.  A  passing  locomotive  would 
have  been  silent  at  that  distance  in  the  storm;  but 
endurance  was  at  an  end.  As  he  wished  most  of  all 
that  she  should  not  know,  he  must  be  alone.  He 


184  The  Quest  Eternal 

was  limping  toward  the  door.  "Maybe  one  of  the 
horses  has  got  hurt  or — or  something."  His  hand 
was  on  the  knob,  his  face  turned  away.  "Go  to 
bed,  Peg.  I'll  be  back  very  soon." 

The  door  opened,  a  puff  of  icy  sleet  sprang  within, 
the  flame  of  the  kerosene  lamp  flickered  in  the  sud- 
den draft — and  the  girl  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ARCADY 

IT  was  the  day  before  the  morning  of  departure, 
April  the  8th  by  the  calendar.  Twice  during  those 
four  months  intervening  an  exact  date  had  been  set 
and  twice  the  unexpected  had  intervened  to  delay. 
First  had  come  the  great  blizzard  of  February, 
when  for  thirteen  days,  uncanny  number,  no  train 
had  succeeded  in  ploughing  westward  on  the  prairie 
division ;  and  had  it  done  so  no  inhabitant,  however 
intrepid,  would  have  dared  venture  beyond  the 
limits  of  his  own  dooryard.  Thirteen  days  and 
nights  when  the  flying  sleet  had  a  razor  edge;  when 
strayed  cattle  laid  down  to  sleep  and  never  awoke ; 
when  quail  sought  the  scattered  farmsteads  and, 
oblivious  to  the  presence  of  their  enemy,  man,  went 
to  roost  with  the  domestic  poultry;  when  last  of  all 
lean  grey  prairie  wolves,  wildest  of  the  wild,  forgot 
fear  and  in  mute  animal  comradery  spent  the  bitter 
nights  side  by  side  with  the  frontier  mongrels. 

This  the  first  intervention;  then,  when  the  later 
date  was  set,  almost  at  its  fulfilment,  came  the  sec- 
ond, a  bolt  from  the  blue,  sickness  where  sickness 
had  never  been  known  or  even  considered — typhoid 
pneumonia,  with  Peg  Stanton  the  victim.  Then  it 


1 86  The  Quest  Eternal 

was  that  into  the  arena  came  the  big  morose  doctor 
with  a  nurse  who  seemed  to  have  arisen  from  the 
earth  to  meet  the  need  and  who  the  day  she  was 
released  shook  the  snow  of  prairie  from  her  skirts 
and  vanished  into  the  mysterious  east  from  which 
she  had  been  summoned.  Yet,  together,  these 
two,  the  doctor  and  his  assistant,  carried  the 
battle  which  none  other  could  have  carried ;  and  as 
the  days  lengthened  into  spring,  out  of  the  chaos 
of  plans  temporarily  forgotten  order  returned,  am- 
bition blossomed  anew,  and  the  third  date,  the  pres- 
ent, came  into  being. 

How  the  cost  of  that  long  period  of  sickness  was 
met,  Peg  Stanton  was  never  told  and,  woman-like, 
forgot  to  inquire.  How  Dr.  Treadway,  when 
asked  his  bill,  broke  into  profanity  Bob  McLeod 
knew;  and  knew  also  that  there  are  times  when  the 
profane  is  something  far  different  in  disguise.  But 
doctor  bills  were  far  from  alone,  and  that  month, 
on  the  Cedar  County  records,  a  new  mortgage  was 
filed,  and  simultaneously  to  the  rapidly  maturing 
face  of  Bob  McLeod  another  year  seemed  added. 

But  now  all  that  was  past.  Upon  the  surface  at 
least  the  normal  had  returned.  Youth  and  the 
coming  of  spring  had  done  their  work.  In  addi- 
tion, upon  the  dresser  in  the  girl's  room,  sole  article 
of  luxury  recently  installed  in  the  place,  a  letter  in 
a  woman's  handwriting — a  letter  with  a  dainty 
monogram  in  the  corner  of  the  sheet,  sympathetic 


Arcady  187 

but  nevertheless  throbbingly  vital  and  insistent — 
was  adding  its  appeal.  To  have  told  the  truth  then 
would  have  been  brutal.  Once,  nevertheless, 
when  he  and  the  boy  were  alone,  Dr.  Treadway 
had  suggested,  suggested  merely — and  had  inter- 
fered no  more.  The  day  was  set.  The  money 
necessary,  no  matter  how  secured,  was  at  hand. 
Nothing  should  prevent,  nothing  did  prevent,  for 
to-morrow  was  that  day. 

But  meanwhile  twenty-four  hours  intervened,  a 
period  of  unqualified  holiday.  It  was  seeding  time, 
the  beginning  of  the  season's  speeding;  yet  notwith- 
standing idleness  reigned.  Since  daylight  it  had 
reigned;  until  the  break  of  another  day  it  would 
hold  sway.  Not  that  either  of  the  two  had  planned 
it  so.  No  word  had  been  spoken,  no  suggestion 
even  hinted ;  yet  by  an  instinct  each  knew  it  was  so 
to  be.  In  a  way  both  were  philosophers;  self- 
taught  in  the  hardest  of  schools,  life  itself.  Until 
that  moment  they  had  played  the  game  as  they 
found  it,  played  it  by  the  rules  already  laid  down, 
played  it  with  all  their  might.  To-morrow  they 
would  pick  up  the  thread  anew  where  it  had  been 
dropped  and  go  on  without  protest.  But  this  brief 
time  was  a  recess,  a  lapse,  a  stolen  thing — and  as 
such  doubly  precious. 

In  the  morning  when  they  arose  they  had  known 
it  was  to  be  a  gala  day;  for  without  an  understand- 
ing, each  had  appeared  attired  in  his  best.  A  piti- 


1 88  The  Quest  Eternal 

fully  humble  change  from  the  normal  it  was,  too 
slight  to  be  observed  by  any  save  the  initiated ;  but 
the  spirit  was  there,  big  in  its  tribute  to  the  occa- 
sion. Likewise,  in  tribute  the  least-frayed  linen,  the 
china  with  the  smallest  nicks  appeared  to  grace  the 
breakfast  board.  No  comment  was  made  thereat. 
None  was  necessary.  Like  the  unusual  dress,  the 
selection  was  instinctive.  It  was  a  quiet  breakfast, 
more  so  even  than  usual.  No  reference  was  made 
to  the  great  event  of  the  holiday,  none  to  the 
greater  event  of  the  morrow.  The  spring  morning 
was  beautiful,  warm  as  early  summer,  so  warm  that 
the  door  and  windows  were  open  wide;  and,  con- 
trary to  their  wont,  when  the  meal  was  over,  they 
still  sat  there  gazing  idly  out  over  the  awakening 
earth  into  the  dim  distance  to  the  east,  where,  be- 
yond the  horizon  line,  throbbed  the  life  which  so 
soon  was  to  concern  them  both.  Yet  of  that  thing 
uppermost  in  their  minds  neither  spoke — not  then. 
Instead,  the  girl  first,  they  arose  and,  as  they  had 
done  when  children,  together  cleared  the  table  and 
put  the  place  in  order.  They  worked  leisurely, 
talking  of  common  things,  and  time  flew.  It  was 
mid-forenoon  when  they  completed  and,  as  there- 
after they  stood  again  a  moment  side  by  side  in  the 
open  doorway,  they  saw  something  that  held  them 
still. 

To  the  town,  the  county  seat,  it  was  twenty  miles 
by  road,  south  and  west;  but  to  the  railway  itself 


Arcady  189 

it  was  but  half  that  distance,  perhaps  less.  The 
day  was  perfectly  still  and,  looking  out  now,  far  in 
the  distance  where  the  railroad  ran,  dim  against  the 
blue  background  yet  nevertheless  distinct,  they  saw 
an  upward  trailing  cloud  of  smoke.  At  first  it  was 
faint  in  the  distance  as  the  thinnest  fog,  visible  to 
the  keenest  eyes  alone.  But  the  eyes  that  watched 
were  young  and  they  understood.  Then  as  minutes 
passed  and  it  drew  nearer  until  it  was  directly  south, 
the  bank  that  was  like  fog  became  denser  and 
denser,  darker  and  darker,  until  rising  high  in  the 
still  air,  it  stood  out  against  the  sky  like  a  thunder- 
cloud. But,  unlike  a  thunder  cloud  it  was  not  still. 
On  and  on  it  went,  across  their  horizon ;  from  black 
shaded  to  brown,  from  brown  to  grey,  from  grey  to 
merest  mist  and  then — then  from  beneath  their 
very  eyes,  consciously  yet  still  unconsciously,  the  last 
faint  haze  was  haze  no  more ;  and  as  from  distance  it 
had  emerged,  in  distance  it  was  again  swallowed  up. 

Not  when  that  first  warning  haze  came  into  being 
was  a  word  spoken,  not  even  when  its  darkness  was 
unmistakable;  not  until  in  retreating  cycle  it  had 
vanished.  Then  at  last  came  comment,  a  single 
word. 

"To-morrow,"  said  the  girl;  and  swift  as  an 
echo,  as  an  echo  soft,  the  boy  repeated:  "Yes,  to- 


morrow." 


But  it  was  the  breaking  of  reticence,  the  key  to  the 
topic  uppermost  in  both  their  minds. 


190  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Let's  go  out  doors  some  place,  Bob,"  said  the 
girl  repressedly,  "where  we  can  lie  down  on  the 
grass  and  smell  it  growing."  She  laughed  con- 
sciously, without  music  in  her  voice.  "I  expect  after 
to-day  it'll  be  a  long  time  before  I  can  be  natural 
again." 

The  boy  glanced  at  her  quickly,  meaningly;  but 
she  did  not  return  his  look. 

"You'll  always  be  natural,  Peg,"  he  said  low. 
"You  couldn't  be  different  if  you  wished."  A  halt; 
then  instinctively  he  returned  to  the  safe  ground 
of  the  commonplace.  "Besides,  where  you  are  go- 
ing you'll  have  parks  and  such  things.  All  towns 
have  them." 

His  companion's  dark  head  shook  a  negative;  but 
still  she  did  not  glance  at  him. 

"No,"  she  refuted,  "I  won't  have  time  to  be  fool- 
ish after  to-day.  I've  got  such  a  lot  to  learn  and 
the  days  go  so  fast." 

Bob  McLeod  said  nothing.  The  time  was  too 
precious  for  the  inconsequent ;  and  nothing  but  the 
inconsequent  suggested  itself. 

"Madame  Ziska  says  I'm  not  to  have  any  music 
at  all  for  awhile,"  went  on  the  girl.  "She's  got  it 
all  arranged.  I'm  to  go  to  school  first;  and  after  a 
while  when  I  begin  to  be  prepared  a  bit,  then — 
then — "  The  voice  halted,  in  instinctive  awe  of 
the  unknown.  A  new  thought,  a  new  dread,  domi- 
nated the  horizon.  "I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  take 


Arcady  1 9 1 

me  a  long  time  to  do  anything,  Bob,"  she  digressed 
slowly,  "an  awfully  long  time." 

Again  the  boy  said  nothing.  As  the  girl  talked 
they  had  moved  away  from  the  house ;  bareheaded, 
the  warm  morning  sun  shining  full  upon  them;  wan- 
dered so  idly,  without  destination  or  consciousness 
of  passing  time.  But  the  girl  did  not  mind  his 
silence,  was  accustomed  to  it. 

"I  expect  you'll  get  through  yet  before  I  do,  Bob," 
she  continued.  "You'll  probably  be  a  doctor  and 
have  a  practice  all  worked  up  before  any  one  ever 
hears  of  me — if  they  ever  do.  It  makes  me  afraid, 
almost,  when  I  think  what  a  lot  I  have  to  learn." 

They  were  out  on  the  prairie  now,  beyond  the 
bare  farm-yard,  the  soft  grass  muffling  their  foot- 
steps, the  soft  spring  breeze  fanning  their  faces. 
Look  where  they  might  no  human  being  except 
themselves  was  in  sight,  no  animal  life  save  a  herd 
of  grazing  stock  far  to  their  left.  The  appeal  of 
it  all,  the  silence,  the  isolation,  the  subtle  tang 
of  growing  vegetation,  was  insistent.  Idleness, 
abandon,  throbbed  in  the  very  air,  in  the  warmth  of 
the  sun.  Instinctively  the  girl  yielded  to  the  in- 
fluence. The  throbbing  youth  of  her  went  out  to 
meet  this  youth  of  the  season,  this  perennially  re- 
turning youth  of  the  old,  old  world.  Unconscious 
that  she  was  no  longer  a  child,  that  neither  were 
children  as  of  old,  she  halted  and,  like  a  wild  thing, 
dropped  fair  in  her  place;  the  heavy  turf  of  prairie 


192  The  Quest  Eternal 

a  mat  beneath  her,  her  face  turned  to  earth  and 
breathing  deep,  her  hands  locked  in  the  grass 
blades,  the  blessed  spring  sun  warming  her  through 
and  through.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  speak, 
did  not  move;  merely  lay  so,  forgetful  of  the  thing 
she  had  been  saying,  forgetful  of  everything  save 
the  present  moment,  drinking  deep,  as  a  drunkard 
drinks,  of  the  mute  passionate  life.  Then,  just 
perceptibly,  she  stirred.  Her  face  turned  up  to  meet 
the  blue,  her  eyes  closed. 

"Oh,  it's  good  to  be  alive,  Bob,"  she  voiced, 
"good,  good!" 

Standing  as  he  too  had  paused,  the  boy  looked 
down  upon  her;  but  it  was  not  his  nature  to  forget, 
even  at  this  moment.  Neither  would  he  lie. 
Therefore  he  said  nothing,  did  nothing;  merely 
stood  there  so,  watching,  waiting. 

A  minute  passed,  a  minute  of  silence  absolute. 
Then  of  a  sudden  the  girl  remembered.  She  lifted 
herself  until  her  face  was  upon  her  hand,  her  elbow 
on  the  earth. 

"Sit  down  please,  Bob,"  she  requested  smilingly. 
"I  don't  believe  you  know  how  to  enjoy  a  holiday 
when  you  have  one." 

The  boy  obeyed ;  clumsily  although  he  tried  to  be 
otherwise. 

"Perhaps  I  don't,  Peg,"  he  said.  He  smiled  in 
turn ;  his  slow  smile.  "I'm  willing  to  learn  though 
if  you'll  teach  me." 


Arcady  193 

The  girl  looked  at  him  steadily,  lazily;  the  spirit 
of  the  day  and  of  the  sun  in  her  big  brown  eyes. 

"All  right,  then.  But  first  you  must  forget  that 
we're  poor,  and  nobody,  and  have  to  work  always ; 
that  in  future  we  won't  see  anything  of  each  other 
for  a  long  time ;  that  other  people  are  selfish  and — 
mean ;  you  must  forget  everything  but  to-day,  now, 
this.  You  must  do  that  first,  Bob." 

The  boy  folded  his  hands  across  his  knees.  His 
fingers  locked. 

'Til  try,  Peg,"  he  said. 

"Then  you  must  remember  that  we're  young,  and 
healthy,  and  alive;  that  the  sun  is  going  to  shine, 
to  keep  right  on  shining;  that  the  wind  is  going  to 
blow  soft,  as  it's  blowing  now;  that  whatever  comes, 
good  or  bad,  there's  always  you  and  I  in  the  world, 
you  and  I  and — we  know  each  other.  You  must 
remember  all  this,  Bob." 

The  folded  hands  on  the  boy's  knees  reversed.  He 
smiled  again,  the  slow  smile. 

"I'm  doing  that  now,"  he  said.  "I'm  remem- 
bering it  all." 

The  girl  lifted  herself  until  her  face  was  free.  The 
smile  left  her  eyes.  Another  look,  intense,  vital, 
compelling  in  its  earnestness,  its  appeal,  took  the 
former  place. 

"Tell  me  then,  Bob,"  she  said  swiftly,  "aren't  you 
happy?  Aren't  you  happy  now  when  you  remem- 
ber?" 


194  The  Quest  Eternal 

A  moment  the  boy  was  silent;  then,  deliberately, 
he  met  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  Peg,"  he  said,  "I'm  happy  now — when  I 
remember." 

A  space  longer  they  remained  so,  the  spell  of  the 
moment  upon  them,  the  great  throbbing  world  be- 
yond their  horizon  forgotten;  then  in  the  old  mo- 
tion of  idleness  and  abandon  the  girl's  face  dropped 
to  her  hand. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  say  to-day,  now 
while  I  think  of  it,  Bob,"  she  began  anew;  "some- 
thing I  want  you  to  promise  me.  It's  a  little  thing, 
but  I  want  your  promise  before  I  go.  Will  you 
give  it,  Bob  ?" 

The  boy  too  leaned  back,  but  his  eyes  were  watch- 
ful. 

"What  is  it,  Peg?"  he  asked. 

"But  promise  me,"  insistently,  "without  my  tell- 
ing. I  want  you  to  do  that  so  I  can  remember,  to 
show  you  trust  me." 

The  listener  hesitated  no  longer.  "I  promise, 
Peg,"  he  said. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  blue  above.  A  thin  cir- 
rus cloud  was  drifting  with  the  breeze  high  over- 
head and  unconsciously  she  followed  its  motion 
with  her  hand. 

"It  isn't  much,  Bob,"  she  said,  "and  you've  prac- 
tically promised  before;  but  I  want  to  be  sure.  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  again  that  no  matter  what  hap- 


Arcady  1 9  5 

pens  in  the  future,  no  matter  how  hard  It  seems  for 
you  to  get  away,  you  will  go  in  spite  of  it.  Will 
you  promise  me  this  again,  Bob,  before  I  go?" 

This  time  the  boy  did  not  hesitate. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  away  to  college  some  day 
in  spite  of  everything." 

"And  soon — next  year  sure?" 

"I  can't  promise  that,  Peg." 

"The  year  after  that,  then,  at  the  latest.  You'll 
be  eighteen  then." 

"I  can't  promise  that  either,  Peg.  I'd  like  to  but 
I  can't." 

The  girl  had  forgotten  the  cloud.  Her  hand 
dropped. 

"Why  not,  Bob?" 

"Don't  ask  me  why,  please,  Peg."  The  boy  was 
speaking  swiftly,  unusually  swiftly.  "There're  too 
many  things  that  might  possibly  prevent.  I'll  do 
my  best;  but  I  can't  set  a  date." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  did  not  answer  and,  abnor- 
mally sensitive,  the  other  imagined  she  was 
hurt. 

"You  know  I'll  do  the  best  I  can,  don't  you, 
Peg?"  he  asked  penitently.  "You'll  trust  me  for 
that  too." 

"Bob!"  The  girl  had  turned  swiftly,  almost 
fiercely.  "Bob!"  That  was  all. 

The  subject  dropped.  Conversation  lapsed. 
Time,  the  unhalting,  drifted  on.  Bit  by  bit  the  sun 


196  The  Quest  Eternal 

had  mounted  into  the  sky,  grew  hotter  and  hotter. 
In  sympathy,  shade  by  shade,  the  distant  horizon 
line  drew  nearer,  became  less  distinct.  Responsive 
to  the  warmth,  from  off  the  face  of  earth,  wavy 
intangible  lines  of  radiant  heat  came  into  being; 
danced  and  swayed  on  their  upward  journey. 
Earth  was  not  silent  now.  Instead,  the  aimless 
prairie  breeze  had  risen,  become  definite  in  direc- 
tion ;  and  above  their  heads  went  droning  and  purr- 
ing on  its  journey.  One  by  one  the  dots  on  the 
horizon  that  had  been  the  individuals  of  the  graz- 
ing herd  disappeared.  Imbued  with  the  ubiquitous 
langour,  their  appetities  satisfied  at  last,  they  had 
lain  down  in  their  places  in  a  mid-day  siesta.  It 
was  time  for  dinner,  the  dinner  that  this  last  day 
was  to  be  an  event;  and,  remembering,  the  girl 
arose.  Reluctantly,  with  a  last  lingering  glance  at 
the  place  she  was  leaving,  she  shook  the  scattered 
wisps  of  grass  from  her  skirts.  Responsive,  the 
boy  also  started  to  follow,  but  she  motioned  him 
back. 

"No,  you're  not  to  come  for  a  half  hour,"  she 
said,  "or  maybe  an  hour.  I'll  call  you  when  I'm 
ready."  She  was  smiling  with  lips  that  repressed 
a  tremble.  "It's  to  be  a  last  big  dinner,  a  surprise." 


Night,  the  last  riight  they  two  were  to  be  together, 
had  come.    The  big  dinner,  the  surprise,  had  been 


Arcady  1 97 

eaten  and  cleared  away — and  passed  into  memory. 
In  the  corner  of  the  room  a  tiny  trunk,  bought  by 
the  boy  in  the  little  town  and  by  him  likewise  care- 
fully marked  on  the  side  with  a  big  M.  S. — that 
stood  for  Margaret  Stanton — was  packed  and 
ready.  It  had  been  an  event,  that  packing.  The 
few  new  articles,  recently  bought  for  the  journey, 
must  of  necessity  be  duly  admired  and  very,  very 
carefully  laid  away  that  no  harm  might  come  to 
them  in  transit.  Small  as  was  the  receptacle  there 
was  still  vacant  room  when  all  were  in  and  the 
house  had  been  rummaged  anew  to  fill  the  lack. 
Evening  was  at  hand  when  the  labour  was  finally 
complete;  and  when  afterward  the  farm  chores 
were  done  night  had  come. 

All  through  the  day  the  two  had  been  cheerful, 
almost  gay.  That  it  had  been  an  effort  and  un- 
natural each  knew;  but  neither  had  admitted  the 
fact  to  the  other.  But  now  at  last,  the  day  over,  the 
darkness  of  evening  about  them,  the  time  of  the 
actual  separation  drawing  so  near,  the  effort  was 
abandoned.  For  the  first  time  they  became  really 
natural.  For  the  first  time,  their  guard  down,  the 
loneliness  of  the  future  gripped  them  close. 

Coming  up  the  path  from  the  barn,  his  work  over, 
the  boy  had  found  the  other  sitting  on  the  doorstep, 
as  on  unnumbered  similar  occasions  in  the  past, 
when  the  day's  labour  was  complete,  he  had  found 
her,  apparently  in  her  familiar  attitude;  and  with- 


198  The  Quest  Eternal 

out  a  word  he  had  sat  down  beside  her.  A  minute 
he  remained  so,  gazing  out  into  the  night,  thinking 
his  own  thoughts.  It  was  dark  now,  so  dark  that 
he  could  not  see  his  companion's  face;  and  he  did 
not  disturb  her.  A  second  minute  passed  so,  the 
intimate  silence  of  prairie  night,  of  prairie  dark- 
ness wrapping  them  in,  cutting  them  off  from  the 
world;  then  of  a  sudden,  breaking  the  spell,  open- 
ing the  wound  that  he  had  thought  not  to  open 
again,  came  a  little  choking  sound  that  was  unmis- 
takable, that  he  feared  and  still  found  sweetest 
music  in  all  the  world:  the  catch  of  a  repressed  little 
sob.  For  a  moment  thereafter  he  still  sat  so,  pre- 
tending not  to  hear,  struggling  for  silence;  then, 
scattering  determination  to  the  winds,  bearing  like 
a  flood  all  before  it,  the  sound  was  repeated,  and 
again  and  again ;  not  repression  this  time  but  aban- 
don at  last — the  weeping  of  one  who  could  restrain 
herself  no  longer,  open,  unashamed. 

"Peg,"  with  an  effort  the  boy's  voice  was  natural, 
almost  neutral,  "you  mustn't  do  that."  A  pause 
wherein  the  speaker  groped  for  an  adequate  reason 
why.  None  that  was  not  sacrilege  suggested  itself. 
"You  simply  mustn't,  Peg,"  he  repeated. 

Instead  of  obeying  the  sobs  were  redoubled.  The 
girl's  whole  body  trembled. 

"I  can't  help  it,  Bob,"  pleaded  a  choking  voice. 
"I've  tried  to  but  I  can't  help  it."  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  a  dark  shadow  against  the 


Arcady  199 

lighted  sky.  "It  didn't  seem  so  bad  when  I  was 
only  thinking  of  leaving;  but  now  when  the  time 
is  so  near  I  see  how  terribly  selfish  it  is  for  me  to  go 
and  leave  you  to  fight  alone."  Bit  by  bit,  muffled, 
halting,  the  explanation  had  come.  Now  of  a 
sudden  the  head  lifted,  the  lines  of  the  face  became 
clear.  "It's  awful  of  me,  Bob,  and  I  hate  myself. 
I  wish  I  were  dead." 

Involuntarily  the  boy  turned  toward  her,  involun- 
tarily his  arms  extended;  then  he  remembered  and 
drew  back  as  before. 

"I  can't  listen  if  you're  going  to  talk  that  way, 
Peg,"  he  said  low.  "I  won't.  Your  staying 
wouldn't  make  any  difference.  I  couldn't  go  now 
anyway.  You  know  that.  Don't  talk  so  any  more. 
Please  don't." 

"But  it  would  make  a  difference,"  insistently.  "I 
know  better."  As  suddenly  as  the  sobs  had  come 
they  had  ceased.  The  moment  was  too  big  for 
tears.  "You're  telling  me  what  isn't  true  so  as  not 
to  hurt  me;  but  just  the  same  my  going  means  so 
much  longer  for  you  to  wait.  That's  what  I  know 
and  I  despise  myself." 

Swift  as  thought  a  denial  sprang  to  the  listener's 
lips;  then  halted.  It  would  have  been  useless  that 
moment  to  prevaricate. 

"I've  never  done  anything  but  be  in  the  way  since 
I  first  came,"  rushed  on  the  girl.  "I  took  your 
place  here  in  the  house.  Your  father  sent  me  to 


2OO  The  Quest  Eternal 

school  instead  of  you.  He  bought  me  clothes  when 
the  money  ought  to  have  been  saved  to  send  you 
away  to  a  doctor.  I've  done  nothing  but  keep  you 
down  year  after  year — and  when  you  are  the  only 
person  who  was  ever  really  good  to  me.  It's  hor- 
rible !  When  I  think  of  it,  selfish  isn't  the  word, 
it's  horrible!" 

"Peg!"  The  listener  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
Irresistibly  he  slipped  across  the  space  separating; 
as  though  she  were  a  child  his  hand  went  over  her 
mouth,  cutting  off  the  flow  of  remorse.  "I  tell  you 
I  won't  listen  any  more,"  he  protested  swiftly. 
"Promise  me  you  won't  say  such  things.  Promise 
me — quick." 

A  second  they  remained  so,  emotionally  tense; 
then  of  a  sudden,  instead  of  resistance,  something 
happened;  something  unexpected,  instinctive,  cata- 
clysmic. Just  perceptibly  the  girl  drew  back,  her 
breath  came  quick,  her  lips  moved  and  she 
kissed  the  palm  before  her  face,  and  ere  either 
had  realised  the  moment  of  action,  again  and 
again. 

As  though  the  hand  were  lead,  it  dropped  to  the 
boy's  lap,  lay  there  very  still. 

"Peg!"  he  said;  but  volumes  could  have  spoken 
no  more. 

An  instant  too  the  girl  was  still;  but  the  Rubicon 
had  been  passed. 

"I  couldn't  help  that  either,  Bob,"  she  said  sud- 


Arcady  20 1 

denly,  tensely,  "and  I  don't  care.  I  think  too  much 
of  you  to  care.  I  lied  to  you  to-day  when  I  said  it 
was  the  work  ahead  I  saw  to  do  that  I  was  afraid 
of.  It  isn't  that,  it's  the  leaving  you  that  hurts." 
In  the  darkness  a  soft  warm  hand  reached  for  and 
found  the  hand  her  lips  had  touched,  held  it  cap: 
tive.  "You're  the  whole  world  to  me,  Bob,  the 
whole  big  round  world — and  I'm  leaving  you  for 
years." 

On  the  listener's  ear  fell  the  words,  the  music. 
On  his  hand  still  lay  that  other  small  hand,  soft  and 
warm.  Since  that  first  instinctive  move  he  had  not 
stirred.  He  could  feel  her  warm  young  body  close 
beside  his  own.  Darkness  was  upon  them  now,  the 
complete  darkness  of  a  moonless  night.  They  were 
alone;  as  much  so  as  though  on  the  centre  of  a 
desert  island,  as  completely  as  though  adrift  on  the 
open  sea.  This  the  boy  knew;  and  that  he  was  a 
boy  in  years  only  as  well.  And  still  time  passed 
and  he  was  silent.  A  spoken  sentence,  a  mere  sug- 
gestion, and  the  thing  his  nature  craved  would  have 
been  his,  the  future  that,  so  lonely  and  so  dark, 
stared  him  in  the  face  would  have  been  altered  to 
suit  his  wish.  This  he  knew  and  still  he  was  silent. 
Many  a  fight  this  repressed  human  had  waged  in 
the  past,  many  were  yet  in  store;  but  never  did  he 
battle  more  bravely  than  at  this  moment.  For  not 
by  a  word  or  action  did  he  betray  himself.  Not  by 
the  merest  suggestion  was  he  false  to  his  trust.  But 


202  The  Quest  Eternal 

there  is  a  limit  to  human  endurance,  even  though 
that  endurance  be  Scotch  stolidity.  That  this  limit 
was  all  but  reached  he  knew ;  and  with  a  last  effort 
supreme,  a  last  determination  he  acted.  Gently, 
infinitely  gently,  he  released  his  hand.  Just  per- 
ceptibly he  drew  away  until  they  were  no  longer 
touching. 

"I  understand,  Peg,  how  you  feel,"  he  said  low, 
"and  I'll  remember — always.  But  we're  young  yet, 
both  of  us,  and  the  thing  has  got  to  be."  He  was 
choosing  his  words  carefully,  convincing  both  him- 
self and  her.  "You'll  feel  different  when  once  you 
get  away  among  new  people  and  new  surroundings. 
You  won't  forget,  but  you'll  feel  different.  It's 
better  far  for  you  to  go." 

The  voice  halted  and  once  more  night  closed  them 
around.  In  the  silence  of  it,  his  answer  spoken,  his 
sacrifice  made,  the  boy  sat  waiting;  a  terrible  ache 
tugging  like  a  live  thing  at  his  consciousness.  As 
he  did  so  he  felt  rather  than  saw  that  the  girl 
had  turned  facing  him.  Before  she  spoke  he  felt 
the  change  he  had  so  deliberately  caused. 

"Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say,  all  you've  got  to 
offer  in  return?"  asked  a  voice,  not  a  girl's  voice, 
but  a  woman's  this  time. 

For  an  instant  the  listener  did  not  answer.  He 
could  not.  His  lips  were  feverishly  dry,  and  he 
moistened  them  involuntarily. 

"Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 


Arcady  203 

A  moment  they  sat  there  so  in  the  darkness,  a 
moment  that  to  one  at  least  was  Hell. 

"All  right  then,  Bob,"  said  the  girl  at  last.  "I'm 
sorry  that  I  said  what  I  did  say.  I  thought — "  Of 
a  sudden  the  sentence  that  had  begun  so  bravely 
halted,  to  remain  incomplete.  Again  on  the  still- 
ness her  breathing  became  quick,  audibly  quick. 
While  a  minute  gathered  into  the  past  she  remained 
so,  battling  with  herself,  with  an  instinct  that  was 
stronger  than  her  will ;  then  for  the  second  time  she 
surrendered.  For  a  second  time  she  shifted  about. 
With  a  little  motion  of  abandon  her  face  came 
close,  until  her  warm  breath  was  upon  the  other's 
cheek. 

"Kiss  me,  Bob,"  she  said  tensely,  "this  once  be- 
fore I  go.  To-morrow  at  the  station  there'll  be 
folks  watching  and  it  will  be  different.  Kiss  me 
now,  good-bye,  just  this  once." 

That  second  for  the  boy  the  universe  stopped, 
time  stood  still.  The  singing  of  the  hot  blood  in  his 
ears  was  as  of  many  cataracts.  Darkness  denser 
than  that  of  night  enfolded  him.  As  he  knew  life, 
himself,  human  nature,  he  knew  that  instant  was  the 
test.  Preternaturally  clearly,  preternaturally  in- 
sistently, there  flashed  through  his  brain  the  assur- 
ance absolute  that  if  he  failed  that  moment  it  was 
the  end;  of  his  future,  of  her  future,  of  all  the  hopes 
they  had  together  builded.  Once  he  granted  her 
wish,  her  request — but  it  would  not  be  once.  In 


204  The  Quest  Eternal 

years  they  were  boy  and  girl;  but  in  development 
they  were  man  and  woman.  Once  he  sealed  that 
proffered  bond  he  would  never  let  her  leave  hdm. 
No  human  power  but  God  alone,  could  take  her 
away.  Thus  he  was  made.  Thus  he  knew  he  was 
made.  And  still  the  face  was  there  beside  his  face, 
still 

"Won't  you  kiss  me,  Bob,"  repeated  the  voice, 
steady  this  time,  unnaturally  steady,  "won't  you  kiss 
me  good-bye,  when  I  ask  it?" 

Instinctively  the  boy  turned,  instinctively  his  lips 
parted;  then  for  an  inappreciable  space  time  lapsed. 
When  reality  returned  he  was  upon  his  feet,  sway- 
ing as  one  drunken,  as  a  runner  who  has  won  when 
the  wire  is  passed.  One  thing,  and  one  alone  was 
in  his  mind,  the  single  consciousness  that  he  had 
not  failed.  Instead,  chronicling  this  fact,  prov- 
ing it,  a  voice  was  speaking,  his  own  voice;  and 
in  words  that  seemed  to  him  pitifully  weak  and 
inadequate. 

"No,"  that  voice  was  saying,  "I  can't,  Peg.  I 
can't.  As  God  is  my  judge  I  dare  not  I" 

Then  for  the  second  time  the  real  merged  into  tHe 
unreal.  Stumblingly,  by  instinct  alone  semi-con- 
sciously,  he  realised  that  of  a  sudden  he  was  fleeing, 
as  a  coward  flees,  from  the  seat  of  battle.  Again 
subconsciously  he  realised  that  he  had  said  some- 
thing more  trite  and  inadequate ;  something  about  it 
being  very  late  and  they  must  both  go  to  bed.  A 


Arcady  205 

bit  later  he  had  felt  the  rounds  of  the  ladder  that 
led  to  the  garret  beneath  his  hands  and  he  had 
climbed  up  and  up.  At  last  the  thing  was  done 
and  he  was  stretched  out  on  his  own  bed,  staring 
up  wide-eyed  into  the  blackness. 

And  of  the  parting  that  preceded  the  new  epoch 
that  was  all. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  WHEEL  MOVES  ON 

FOUR  years  drifted  by,  eventless  save  for  the  change 
of  seasons,  monotonous  as  the  dripping  sands  of  an 
hour-glass.  Four  years,  one  after  the  other,  prairie 
had  frowned  on  man,  her  slave.  For  the  cycle  of 
the  lean  years  was  once  again  upon  the  land;  the 
old,  old  cycle  of  burning  suns,  of  clouded  skies  that 
failed  in  their  omen,  of  burned-brown  monochrome 
stretching  from  horizon  to  horizon.  For  the  sec- 
ond time  in  the  life  of  Bob  McLeod  the  great 
change  from  fertility  to  sterility  had  come  about — 
and  dragged  on  and  on.  The  very  year  Peg  Stan- 
ton  had  gone,  in  finest  irony,  the  alteration  had 
come.  For  month  after  month  of  the  growing 
period,  from  frost  to  frost,  the  rain  had  failed. 
Hoping  against  hope  the  boy  had  worked,  his 
neighbours  had  worked,  the  whole  frontier  had 
laboured — and  in  vain.  The  curse  was  upon  them 
— the  unalterable  mandate  of  drought.  The  wheat 
sprouted  and  grew,  battled  with  them  against  the 
inevitable,  approached  the  time  of  harvest — and, 
beaten  at  last,  withered  as  it  stood.  The  corn 
germinated,  dotted  the  landscape  green  for  a  sea- 
son— and  likewise  burned  back  to  earth.  Even  the 


The  Wheel  Moves  On  207 

prairie  grass  halted  in  its  growth  and,  ere  the  sum- 
mer was  past,  rattled  crisp  beneath  the  passing 
foot.  It  was  the  old,  old  tale  oft  repeated,  the  pre- 
ordained halt  in  the  march  of  civilisation,  the  ever- 
recurring  lapse  in  the  transformation  of  a  new 
country  to  an  old;  yet  to  them  who  struggled  and 
met  its  decree  it  was  cruel  as  nature  only  can  be 
cruel,  unjust  and  unexplained  as  again  nature  only 
can  be  unjust  and  inexplicable. 

Thus  the  pendulum  swung  and  the  first  lean  year 
came  and  went;  then  followed  the  second.  Begin- 
ning now  the  shadow  of  disaster  hung  dim  against 
the  sky ;  but,  undaunted,  man  struggled  on.  Though 
already  the  creeks  sung  to  slower  measure  and  wa- 
tercourses here  and  there  were  dry,  there  was  still 
hope.  They  sowed  and  planted  the  last  seed  in 
their  midst  and  waited  for  the  rains.  They  grum- 
bled little,  some  prayed  perhaps,  but  they  waited. 
Yet  still  the  rains  did  not  come.  Over  them  blazed 
an  unrelenting  sky  or  clouded  but  to  clear  again  and 
leave  the  parched  earth  drier  than  before.  Long 
before  the  time  of  harvest  this  year  they  read  their 
answer.  Merciful  at  least  in  this,  nature  did  not 
hold  them  long  in  doubt.  Idle  perforce  they  drifted 
with  the  tide  or  counted  the  months  and  days  ere, 
in  the  routine  of  the  big  game,  they  could  call  for 
a  new  hand. 

This  the  second  year;  then  came  the  third.  Seed 
they  had  none  this  season,  all  must  needs  be  brought 


208  The  Quest  Eternal 

in  from  more  favoured  lands  to  the  east.  Yet 
somehow  they  got  it ;  by  what  hook  or  crook  would 
make  a  volume  of  individual  ingenuity,  individual 
sacrifice.  It  was  the  third  attempt,  logically  the 
winning  attempt,  and  courage  revived.  Barely  a 
farm  in  the  county  was  free  from  its  mortgage  now ; 
but  still  they  were  cheerful.  One  good  year  would 
make  all  right,  two  would  leave  a  surplus  against 
a  future  repetition.  The  optimism  was  contagious, 
boundless,  and  settlers  who  were  strangers  each 
to  each  smiled  as  they  passed  each  other  on  the 
road. 

But  for  the  third  time  the  rains  did  not  come. 
Once  again  the  newly  ploughed  fields  baked  and 
curled  in  a  season-long  drought.  Then  for  the  first 
time  despair  came  upon  them,  gripped  them  close. 
What  had  been  merely  murmuring  the  preceding 
years  was  now  open  invective.  What  had  been  dis- 
content became  open  revolt.  From  the  abstract, 
the  problem  of  existence  which  had  confronted 
them  merged  swiftly  into  the  concrete.  Their  re- 
sources were  exhausted,  and  starvation,  not  theoret- 
ical but  actual,  stared  them  in  the  face.  Under  its 
pressure  like  water  they  flowed. 

For  it  was  then  the  exodus  began;  an  exodus  sec- 
ond only  to  that  former  historical  one  when  Indian 
warfare  and  rapine  flamed  forth  in  the  land.  Early 
in  summer  it  commenced;  a  scattering  trail  of 
prairie  schooners  headed  east  and  south  along  the 


The  Wheel  Moves  On          209 

section  roads.  Then  as  the  season  advanced  the 
flood  augmented  until  scarcely  a  night  passed  with- 
out disclosing  a  camper  implanted  on  the  right  of 
way  in  front  of  the  McLeod  homestead.  Finally 
as  winter  approached  and  the  necessity  of  immedi- 
ate action  became  imperative,  it  reached  its  height. 
It  was  dramatic,  epochal,  that  flitting  at  the  season 
of  the  migrating  birds;  yet  more  than  that  it  was 
pathetic,  as  the  simile  itself. 

Old  and  young  made  up  that  retreating  army,  the 
physically  able  and  the  physically  disabled.  New- 
comers of  the  year  before  mingled  with  old  settlers 
who  had  spent  the  best  years  of  their  lives  attempt- 
ing to  carve  out  a  home  here  in  this  virgin  land. 
But  now  all  were  alike  in  the  equality  of  adversity. 
What  property  they  had  which  would  sell  they  had 
sold.  The  rest  was  abandoned,  or  in  the  form  of 
live  stock  trailed  along  in  their  wake.  A  few  in- 
tended to  return  some  time;  but  the  majority  did 
not — were  shaking  the  dust  of  frontier  forever 
from  their  feet.  Like  a  passing  show,  like  the  wild 
migrants  whose  example  they  followed,  they  came 
and  went — and  the  relentless  season  drew  apace  to 
a  close.  Here  and  there,  through  the  long  winter 
nights  that  followed,  a  solitary  farm-house  re- 
mained dark  and  deserted;  but  otherwise  their  exit 
from  the  scene  left  no  trace.  Like  minor  actors, 
they  had  taken  their  cue  and  played  their  tiny  part. 
Like  minor  actors,  they  had  disappeared  from  the 


210  The  Quest  Eternal 

State.  But  meanwhile,  unhalting,  the  great  play 
went  on. 

Then  at  last  came  the  fourth  year  and,  side  by. 
side  with  the  abandoned  farms  of  their  neighbours, 
those  who  remained  went  doggedly  about  their 
work.  There  were  no  weaklings  on  the  frontier 
now,  none  who  repined  or  murmured.  By  the 
gradual  process  of  elimination  such  had  gone.  They 
were  fixtures,  these  humans  who  remained  now; 
firmly  rooted  as  the  native  buffalo  grass  or  the  wil- 
lows that  sprouted  from  the  creek  beds.  That  to 
all  things  there  is  an  end  they  knew;  and  in  grim 
tenacity,  as  though  three  failures  were  not  already 
staring  them  in  the  face,  they  made  the  fight  anew. 
Hardened  gamblers,  when,  early  in  the  season,  the 
spring  rains  came  they  showed  no  elation.  When 
later  the  brief  period  of  promise  vanished  and  the 
familiar  tale  of  drought  was  repeated  they  still  held 
their  peace.  Though  uniformly  in  debt,  their 
credit  was  still  good  for  one  more  ante  in  the  sea- 
son to  come,  and  until  their  last  chip  vanished  from 
the  board  they  were  not  beaten.  They  merely  sat 
back  in  their  seats  with  inscrutable  faces  and  silently 
watched  the  months  drag  by. 

For  this  was  the  last  year  of  the  great  drought  that 
in  aggregate  cut  the  frontier  population  to  half. 
Of  necessity  it  was  likewise  the  worst  year.  Human 
emigration  there  was  little  or  none;  but  live  stock 
flowed  away  in  a  continual  stream,  and  therefore  the 


The  Wheel  Moves  On  211 

reason  was  obvious,  imperative.  Not  only  was  the 
need  of  money  insistent,  but  year  by  year  water  had 
become  increasingly  difficult  of  access.  Barely  a 
creek  on  the  frontier  flowed  now  and  rivers  were 
prohibitorily  distant.  Wells  that  heretofore  were 
unfailing  went  dry.  Not  a  wild  fowl  nested  that 
year  for  miles  around ;  not  one  halted  in  its  fall  mi- 
gration. Stock  grew  thinner  and  thinner  despite 
the  native  grasses  that  drought  could  not  entirely 
suppress.  Water  they  must  have  or  die — and  water 
their  owners  could  not  furnish.  Therefore  the  ex- 
odus; by  carload  and  by  trainload,  by  long  extra 
sections  that  drew  away  by  day  and  by  night. 
When  at  last  the  tardy  coming  of  snow  in  the 
fourth  year  turned  the  plains  white,  barely  a  graz- 
ing living  thing  dotted  their  expanse.  Since  the 
coming  of  the  first  settlers  there  had  never  been 
such  an  unbroken  expanse  of  white.  It  was  the  end 
of  the  evil  days,  the  beginning  of  a  new  era  of 
prosperity;  but  this  those  grim  waiting  pioneers 
could  not  know.  Had  they  known,  they  could  have 
done  no  differently  than  they  had  done.  Under  the 
stress  of  necessity  they  had  swept  the  horizon  bare. 
A  blank  white  page  it  stretched  out  around  them, 
awaiting  the  record  of  the  new  era  that  was  at 

hand. 

***** 

And  among  those  who  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
new  year,  awaited  without  protest,  though  his  sub- 


212  The  Quest  Eternal 

stance  to  the  last  white  chip  had  gone  in  the  game, 
was  a  young  Scotch- American  of  the  name  of 
McLeod.  Dogged  patient,  year  after  year,  like  his 
neighbours,  he  had  waited;  and,  like  them,  season 
after  season  had  found  him  more  deeply  enmeshed 
in  the  tangle  of  debt.  The  first  blank  year  had 
passed  without  surface  change.  On  the  Cedar 
County  records  a  new  mortgage,  a  third  mortgage, 
had  come  into  being.  That  was  all.  The  year  fol- 
lowing, in  advance  of  the  general  exodus,  his  stock 
had  gone — all  but  a  handful.  But  when  the  draft 
so  obtained  went  east  no  hint  was  given  of  the  way 
it  had  been  obtained,  no  suggestion  of  the  blank 
future  or  of  the  barren  past. 

The  third  year,  in  the  tiny  private  room  at  the 
rear  of  the  bank,  he  faced  President  Brady,  whose 
name  was  on  the  first  big  mortgage  recorded.  It 
was  a  short  interview.  He  told  his  story,  making 
no  promises  for  the  future,  offering  no  apologies 
for  the  past,  using  not  one  superfluous  word.  The 
other  listened.  At  the  close  there  was  a  pause 
wherein  the  two,  both  men  now,  looked  each  other 
eye  to  eye.  Then,  unbelievable  as  it  may  seem, 
without  a  suggestion  on  the  part  of  the  younger,  the 
thing  he  wished  was  granted.  An  extension  was 
allowed  for  a  year  and  a  new  note,  smaller  far  than 
its  predecessors,  but  enough  to  meet  imperative 
need,  was  drawn. 

And  still  when  that  latest  draft  went  east  no  hint 


The  Wheel  Moves  On  213 

of  its  source  accompanied;  only  a  regret,  pathetic 
in  its  brevity,  that  the  belated  visit,  which  had  been 
deferred  year  by  year,  must  be  again  delayed.  The 
letter  which  he  wrote,  the  letter  so  carefully 
worded,  was  written  and  rewritten  many  times,  was 
delayed  day  after  day  while  its  author  waited,  hop- 
ing for  a  miracle;  but  at  last  it  went,  and  the  game 
dragged  on. 

Then  at  last  came  the  fourth  blank  year  and  with 
it  the  end.  Early  in  the  summer,  when  nature  had 
spoken  her  decision,  he  came  to  town;  every  frag- 
ment of  his  possessions  packed  in  the  cloth  telescope 
under  the  buggy  seat.  The  team  and  the  wagon 
were  the  only  chattels  left  to  the  McLeod  farm — 
and  in  another  hour  they  too  would  not  be  his.  Be- 
fore he  had  left  the  house  he  had  closed  the  door 
and  turned  the  key;  though  the  latter  precaution 
was  needless.  The  interior  of  the  house,  like  the 
farm-yard  beyond,  was  bare  of  any  article  of  com- 
mercial value.  Even  the  sheet-iron  stove  and  the 
cupboard  with  the  tin  doors  had  gone  their  way. 
Methodically,  in  front  of  the  bank,  he  drew  up  the 
team,  tied,  and  went  within.  Brady  was  there,  had 
seen  him  arrive,  and  at  a  gesture  led  the  way  to 
the  little  room  behind.  The  cloth  telescope  was 
still  in  the  visitor's  hand.  He  did  not  put  it  down 
or  take  a  seat. 

"I  locked  the  house  before  I  left,"  he  said. 
"There's  an  old  cook  stove  and  a  pine  table  and  a 


214  The  Quest  Eternal 

few  such  things  left;  but  that's  all."    He  fumbled 
in  his  pocket  with  his  free  hand.    "Here's  the  key." 

No  other  word  of  explanation  was  spoken.  None 
other  was  necessary. 

Mechanically,  almost  reluctantly,  Brady  accepted 
the  proffered  key.  Noticeably  ill  at  ease,  in  con- 
trast with  his  visitor,  he  cleared  his  throat. 

"I'm  sorry,  really,  McLeod,"  he  began;  "it's  hard 
luck  for  you  I  realise,  but " 

"I — understand,"  prevented  the  other  quickly. 
"You've  done  all  you  could."  The  window  was 
open  and  walking  over  he  leaned  on  the  sill.  "I 
didn't  call  to  bother  you  or  to  ask  the  impossible. 
I  had  another  object."  He  looked  the  other  di- 
rectly. "You'll  be  working  the  place  next  year 
yourself,  I  expect?" 

Brady  took  a  seat.    He  was  accustomed  to  dealing 
with  men,  but  this  specimen  was  of  a  new  type. 
"I  suppose  so,  unless  I  sell,"  he  hesitated. 

"You  can't  sell  now  to  advantage,  Mr.  Brady." 

"I  suppose  not." 

"In  case  you  farm  the  place  you'll  need  a  team. 
Did  you  notice  the  one  I  drove  in?" 

"Yes,  a  bit." 

"I  want  to  sell  them.  The  wagon  isn't  worth 
much,  but  I'll  throw  it  in." 

Onto  the  horizon  loomed  the  prospect  of  business 
and  the  banker's  eyes  narrowed;  but  he  said  noth- 
ing. 


The  Wheel  Moves  On  215 

"They're  a  good  team,  Mr.  Brady,  young  and 
kind.  I  know  because  I  raised  them  from  colts. 
I'll  take  two  hundred  dollars  for  them." 

"Horses  are  poor  property  now,  out  of  demand." 

"I  know;  but  they're  worth  two  fifty.  I  can  sell 
them  even  now  easy  at  two  hundred." 

The  banker  cleared  his  throat  unnecessarily. 

"Pardon  me  for  the  suggestion,  but  aren't  you  a 
bit  foolish  to  sell  at  all?"  he  queried.  "You'll  be 
wanting  them  yourself  in  a  year  or  so." 

"Perhaps;  but  I  need  the  money  right  now.  I've 
got  to  sell — to  you  or  some  one." 

"Very  well,  then,  I'll  take  them."  There  was  posi- 
tive relief  in  the  voice.  One  with  a  conscience  must 
sometimes  give  advice,  even  though  it  be  opposed 
to  self-interest;  but  when  all  is  said  a  good  deal  is 
a  good  deal.  "I'll  give  you  the  money  as  you  go 
out." 

"Just  one  other  thing,"  quickly.  Bob  McLeod 
was  no  hypocrite  and  he  spoke  no  thanks.  "You'd 
need  a  man  to  work  for  you  next  year.  If  you  have 
no  one  else  in  mind  I'd  like  to  apply  for  the  place.*' 

As  before,  the  prospect  of  business  loomed  in  view 
and  again  Brady's  eyelids  narrowed. 

"I  won't  be  able  to  offer  very  big  wages,"  he  sug- 
gested, "things  are  so  uncertain  just  now." 

"I  don't  expect  it.  I'll  take  thirty-five  dollars  a 
month  and  board  myself." 

The  banker  hesitated  in  seeming  uncertainty. 


21 6  The  Quest  Eternal 

"I'll  consider  the  matter,"  he  said  at  last. 

"I'll  have  to  know  now,"  refused  the  man  before 
the  window  evenly.  "I'm  at  the  end  of  my  rope 
and  can't  have  any  uncertainty  about  the  future. 
If  you  don't  want  me  I'll  look  for  another  place." 

Brady  did  not  hesitate  this  time.  He  knew  it  was 
useless. 

"I'll  make  a  contract  with  you  at  the  price  you 
named,"  he  accepted. 

"Thank  you,"  said  McLeod  this  time. 


From  the  bank  the  man  went  to  Treadway's  of- 
fice. The  doctor  was  not  in  and,  without  form  of 
permission,  the  visitor  appropriated  his  desk  and 
wrote  a  letter.  That  is,  he  wrote  several  and,  after 
careful  revision,  finally  copied  the  last  and  de- 
stroyed the  others. 

"Dear  Peg:"  he  wrote. 

"Once  more  I'll  have  to  say  no  to  your  invitation. 
I'd  like  to  come  mighty  well,  I  think  you'll  believe 
that,  particularly  because  I've  never  seen  a  com- 
mencement and  more  especially  because  this  is  your 
commencement;  but  I  simply  can't  now.  I  know 
you'll  do  fine  and  I'm  mighty  glad  for  you  that 
you're  through  college.  You'll  have  time  for  your 
music  now  and  won't  have  to  work  so  hard  trying 
to  do  two  things  at  one  time.  Don't  let  Madame 
Ziska  know  I  told,  but  I  got  a  note  from  her  a  while 


The  Wheel  Moves  On  217 

back  and  she  says  you're  coming  on  fast.  I  did 
about  three  men's  work  the  day  I  got  that  letter, 
Peg,  I  was  so  proud.  You've  got  a  voice,  girl;  I 
know  it  and  you  know  it — and  Madame  Ziska 
knows  it  too.  You'll  win  in  the  end,  we  all  believe 
that,  so  whatever  happens  don't  get  blue. 

"I  expect  you'll  think  I'm  awful  selfish  and  don't 
care  a  bit  what  you're  doing,  when  you  get  this, 
Peg;  but  forgive  me  this  once  more,  please.  I'm 
enclosing  a  draft  for  two  hundred  dollars.  I  just 
sold  some  stock  and  I  thought  you'd  need  the 
money  particularly  just  now.  I'll  have  some  more 
coming  in  before  winter,  so  don't  worry  about 
finances.  And,  by  the  way,  you'd  better  get  that 
new  gown  you  suggested.  I  think  I  understand 
how  you  feel  about  being  'like  the  rest  of  them.'  I 
certainly  want  you  to  be  like  the  other  girls.  And 
— another  thing,  Peg.  Pay  for  the  things  you 
need  yourself,  always,  please.  That  new  hat  with 
the  ostrich  tips  you  said  Madame  Ziska  gave  you 
because  your  old  one  looked  a  bit  dingy — pay  her 
for  it,  please.  I  don't  want  to  interfere ;  but  some 
time  you'll  know  I'm  right  when  I  ask  you  to  be 
independent.  She's  a  good  friend  to  you  now  and 
mighty  kind;  but  none  of  us  know  the  future  and 
money  favours  are  different  from  other  kinds.  Even 
though  they're  small  they  make  one  more  or  less 
dependent.  Won't  you  do  as  I  ask,  please  ? 

"I'm  pretty  busy,  Peg,  and  can't  think  of  anything 


2i 8  The  Quest  Eternal 

particularly  new  to  tell  you  anyway.  I've  been 
reading  up  on  voices  a  bit  since  you  told  me  yours 
was  a  contralto.  You'd  have  laughed  if  you'd  seen 
me  figuring  out  the  difference  between  an  alto  and 
a  soprano  and  contralto  and  the  rest.  I  supposed 
they  were  all  the  same  before. 

"Good-bye,  now — and  remember  what  I  said 
about  obligations,  please.  I  want  you  to  finish  two 
years  from  now  as  you  began — absolutely  inde- 
pendent." 

Carefully  as  he  had  written  the  letter  he  addressed 
the  envelope  and  put  the  latter  in  his  pocket.  After 
that  he  sat  waiting.  A  note  on  the  desk  said  the 
doctor  would  return  at  9.30  o'clock.  It  was  now 
nearly  ten;  but  no  one  had  come.  On  the  desk  like- 
wise was  a  new  magazine;  but  though  the  visitor 
saw  it  he  did  not  take  it  up.  For  one  of  the  few 
times  in  his  life  he  could  not  read.  Once  he  arose 
and  walked  over  to  the  window;  but  almost  im- 
mediately he  returned.  Another  man  would  prob- 
ably have  found  it  impossible  at  that  time  to  remain 
so,  inactive,  waiting;  but  Bob  McLeod  was  himself 
and  no  other.  Now  and  then,  as  he  sat  there,  his 
hands  opened  and  closed  tight,  unconsciously, 
tensely;  but  that  was  all.  Otherwise  he  seemed 
merely  resting,  merely  passive. 

It  was  10.15  when  a  familiar  step  came  stumping 
up  the  hall;  and,  responsive,  the  visitor  arose.  The 
cloth  telescope  was  beside  his  chair  and  he  took  it 


The  Wheel  Moves  On  219 

up  preparatory  to  leaving.  The  two,  the  newcomer 
and  the  visitor,  met  just  inside  the  waiting-room 
door — and  as  usual  between  them  there  were  no 
preliminaries. 

"I'm  going  east  on  the  morning  train,  for  a  while," 
said  the  younger,  "and  I  called  before  going  to  ask 
a  favour.  I  get  a  letter  from  Peg  Stanton  now  and 
then,  and  I'd  rather  not  explain  to  her  that  I'm 
away.  I'll  be  writing  occasionally  in  return,  too, 
and  I'd  like  to  have  the  letters  posted  from  here. 
I  think  you  understand  what  I  wish." 

Treadway  nodded,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"I'll  send  you  my  address  when  I  get  located. 
It'll  be  somewhere  in  Iowa.  I  don't  know  exactly 
where  yet." 

The  big  doctor  looked  a  question,  looked  it  only. 

"Yes,  I've  given  possession,"  said  the  other. 
"There's  no  use  bucking  the  inevitable  any  longer; 
and  besides  I've  simply  got  to  have  an  income.  I'll 
get  where  they  have  a  crop  in  time  for  harvest  and 
there'll  be  corn  to  husk  afterwards." 

"You'll  be  back?" 

"Next  spring.  I'm  under  contract  to  work  the 
place  for  Brady  the  coming  year." 

Again  Treadway  nodded. 

"I  suppose,"  he  added  evenly,  "there's  no  use  of 
my  asking  you  again  if  you  know  what  all  this 
means?" 

"Yes,"  quickly,  "I  know.    But  I've  got  to  have 


22O  The  Quest  Eternal 

a  certain  income  for  two  years  yet — and  farming's 
all  I  know  anything  about." 

A  moment  they  stood  so,  each  waiting  for  the 
other  to  speak;  then  meaningly,  not  cruelly  but 
nevertheless  unmistakably,  the  eyes  of  the  elder 
man  dropped — dropped  until  they  rested  on  a  mis- 
shapen boot  on  the  cottonwood  floor.  Whether  or 
no  he  would  have  spoken  remains  unrecorded,  a 
secret  with  him  alone ;  for,  anticipating,  preventing, 
almost  as  though  he  had  been  struck,  McLeod  drew 
back.  Beneath  its  coat  of  tan  his  face  shaded  pale. 

"Don't,  please,"  he  requested  swiftly.  "I  don't 
want  to  argue  it  to-day.  I  realise  it  means  never 
now — but  no  matter.  I've  gotten  along  for  twenty 
years  so  and  I  guess  I  can  finish  the  same  way." 

Abruptly  as  the  sudden  flow  of  words  had  begun 
they  halted.  Equally  abruptly  he  started  for  the 
door.  As  there  had  been  no  introduction,  there 
was  no  form  of  parting.  Without  another  word 
or  a  single  backward  glance,  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  QUEST 

THE  month  was  July,  the  time  afternoon.  Peace 
was  upon  the  land — the  infinite  peace  of  prosperity 
and  of  plenty.  A  light  breeze  was  blowing,  not 
strong,  yet  enough  to  keep  the  mantel  of  green  that 
covered  the  earth  from  horizon  to  horizon  a-sway. 
Like  the  surface  of  a  great  lake  was  that  stretch  of 
vegetation — not  a  sea,  for  the  surface  was  even,  the 
wavelets  tiny — but  a  lake,  hill-surrounded  and  pro- 
tected. As  the  surface  of  lake  water  is  rippled  so 
pulsated  the  endless  green.  For  over  the  face  of 
prairie  each  growing  thing  had  struck  a  level;  the 
mature  and  the  immature  blending.  Knee  high 
was  the  grass  bed  of  the  meadows,  mature  but  not 
yet  passed  to  the  brown  of  age.  Knee  high  were 
the  fields  of  wheat  and  oats  and  rye,  unripe  and 
waiting  for  the  impetus  that  would  send  the  heads 
suddenly  shooting  upward  an  equal  length.  Knee 
high  and  rankly  green  were  the  corn  fields,  not  wait- 
ing but  growing  almost  visibly  day  by  day  under  the 
stimulus  of  summer  and  bounteous  moisture.  All, 
obeying  the  unequal  laws  of  awakening  and  of 
growth,  had  met  on  this  neutral  ground  of  early 
summer.  All,  under  the  gentle  touch  of  the  wind, 


222  The  Quest  Eternal 

pulsated  in  unison,  as  swing  pendulums  of  similar 
length. 

For  it  was  the  second  of  the  fat  years,  the  cycle 
that  had  followed  the  lean  four.  But  already,  so 
short  is  human  memory,  recollection  of  that  period 
of  depression  had  all  but  passed.  Even  among 
those  settlers  who  had  stayed  through  it  all  the  im- 
pression was  becoming  dimmed ;  like  an  evil  dream 
when  the  sun  rises  on  the  morrow.  Among  the 
newcomers  who,  like  a  flood,  had  inundated  the 
land  it  was  ignored  absolutely.  Nature,  prodigal 
as  a  spendthrift  of  her  favours,  had  covered  every 
trace  of  her  former  displeasure;  as  if  penitent  had 
opened  her  storehouse  wide  until  earth  fairly 
groaned  beneath  her  bounty.  It  was  a  time  of  re- 
joicing, of  ceaseless  activity:  a  veritable  saturnalia 
of  animal  and  vegetable  life.  Nothing  that  drew 
breath  could  resist  the  influence.  Nothing  at- 
tempted to  combat.  Thinking  man  or  unthinking 
beast  were  the  same,  were  brothers  beneath  the  sun. 
The  common  mother  was  kind,  was  smiling  at  them 
continuously  by  day  and  by  night.  Already  her 
promise  of  future  was  spoken  in  the  assurance  of  a 
mighty  harvest.  Energy  ubiquitous  throbbed  all 
about  them,  within  them.  Like  children  of  the 
sun  that  they  were,  they  accepted  as  was  offered — 
and  in  so  doing  found  it  very  good. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest         223 

In  a  corn  field  that  covered  one-third  of  the  sur- 
face of  the  one-time  McLeod  farm,  now  the  Brady 
place,  a  man  was  working  this  afternoon.  Since 
sunrise,  with  a  brief  interval  of  rest  at  noon,  he 
had  been  labouring.  The  field  was  large,  larger 
than  one  man  ordinarily  attempted  to  cultivate, 
and  the  growth  of  weeds  was  insistently  swift. 
Therefore  he  lost  no  time.  Back  and  forth  across 
the  field  he  vibrated,  covering  one  row  at  each  pas- 
sage, the  trail  of  green  dots  an  endless  ribbon  be- 
hind him — reaching  out  in  an  endless  ribbon  before. 
The  cultivator  he  used  was  of  the  old-fashioned 
walking  kind.  The  team  that  gave  it  motion  were 
plodding  strong,  plodding  patient.  On  and  on  they 
went.  On  and  on  the  man  who  directed  the  shovels 
followed.  The  reins  were  tied  together  and  hung 
across  his  back,  leaving  his  hands  free.  Under  their 
direction,  automatic  from  practice,  the  shovels  of 
the  plough  moved  in  and  out  rhythmically,  avoid- 
ing the  growing  corn,  unerringly  cutting  out  the 
weeds  that  interspersed.  The  eyes  of  the  worker 
seldom  glanced  up.  They  could  not  do  so  without 
halting  in  his  task — and  he  was  in  a  hurry.  There- 
fore now  they  lifted  not  at  all. 

As  he  moved  along  he  limped  with  every  other 
step,  this  man ;  but  that,  too,  from  long  experience 
was  automatic.  Otherwise  he  was  of  the  type  true : 
the  type  that  could  be  found  working  in  every  field 
adjoining  for  miles  around.  To  one  of  another  life 


224  The  Quest  Eternal 

he  would  have  been  picturesque.  Of  the  fact  him- 
self he  was  utterly  unconscious.  The  cotton  shirt 
of  brown  and  white  that  he  wore  rolled  up  to  the 
elbows  was  unbuttoned  and  opened  wide  at  the 
throat.  The  baggy  corduroy  trousers  were  held  in 
place  by  a  leather  belt.  The  big  frontier  felt  hat 
on  his  head,  weather-stained  and  misshapen,  that 
waved  sympathetically  with  his  every  motion,  was 
likewise  dull  brown.  All  in  all  brown  was  the  domi- 
nating tone  from  crown  to  foot,  throat,  arms,  face 
— brown  as  the  kiss  of  the  sun  which  is  tan.  In 
the  haunts  of  evolved  civilisation  and  of  fashion  so 
far  away,  that  conformity  of  colour  would  have 
been  art.  With  him  it  was  instinctive,  unconscious, 
natural  selection  typified. 

And  meanwhile  the  green  ribbon  was  unrolling 
beneath  his  bare  arms  as  he  moved  along,  the  broad 
leaves  rustling  a  greeting  as  he  passed  each  hill. 
Bordering  the  field,  limiting  it  at  one  side,  was  a 
section  road,  and  on  reaching  it  he  turned  about 
methodically  in  a  return  journey.  But  even  then 
he  did  not  glance  up  or  along  its  stretch  to  see  if 
by  chance  some  one  were  moving.  To  do  so  never 
occurred  to  him.  And  therein  the  aloofness  was 
typical.  Whether  or  no  another  human  was  on  a 
journey  concerned  him  not.  His  affair  was  to 
plough  corn,  to  work  in  the  field  he  had  momentarily 
left.  Therefore  without  a  pause  he  faced  the  team 
about,  the  shovels  temporarily  lifted,  returned  to 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest          225 

earth,  the  swish  of  the  passing  corn  blades  came 
anew  to  his  ears,  the  creaking  of  the  harness,  the 
low  tinkle  of  metal  against  metal 

"Bob !"  It  was  a  woman's  voice  that  interrupted, 
a  voice,  moreover,  that  now  held  an  injured  note, 
"BobMcLeod!" 

As  though  suddenly  awakened  the  man  turned. 
The  reins  slipped  up  under  his  arms,  drew  tight 
and  the  team  stopped.  Beneath  the  sun  kiss  that 
was  tan  the  face  shaded  lighter.  That  was  all. 

"Bob,"  repeated  the  voice  for  the  second  time,  and 
simultaneously  from  the  single  livery  rig  that  had 
drawn  up  in  the  road  the  speaker  approached. 
"Bob,  don't  you  know  me?" 

"Peg,"  said  the  man  simply.  And  again  that  was 
all. 

But  still  the  visitor  was  coming  across  the  narrow 
right  of  way;  a  vision  of  white,  white  from  crown 
to  sole,  the  afternoon  sun  glistening  in  her  eyes, 
drawing  clear  the  curve  of  chin  and  of  throat.  At 
the  edge  of  the  field  she  paused,  waiting;  for  the 
other  had  not  stirred,  only  halted  watching  her.  She 
did  not  smile,  she  merely  stood  so,  observing  in  turn. 
Ten  seconds  passed  in  that  unconscious  mutual  in- 
spection ;  that  involuntary  bridging  of  the  chasm  of 
time.  Then  she  spoke  again. 

"Aren't  you  coming  half  way  to — shake  hands?" 
she  asked  low. 

Like  one  aroused  from  a  dream  the  man  came 


226  The  Quest  Eternal 

forward.  He  was  conscious  now  of  himself,  of 
everything,  and  he  limped  noticeably. 

"You  surprised  me  so,  Peg.  I  couldn't  believe  it 
possible  that  it  was  you  at  first."  He  halted  awk- 
wardly, equally  awkwardly  held  out  his  hand ;  big, 
sun-browned,  work-hardened — a  hand  in  which  the 
other  tiny  white  one  vanished  into  total  eclipse. 
"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again, 
Peg." 

"Glad?"  The  girl  removed  her  hand,  looked  the 
other  fair  in  the  eyes.  But  even  yet  she  did  not 
smile.  "Glad — and  not  at  the  station  to  meet  me 
when  I  wrote  I  was  coming?  Glad — and  not  one 
visit  in  six  years,  not  when  I  graduated  from  col- 
lege or  last  month  when  I  finished  my  course  in 
music?  Glad — and  not  there  when  I  sang  first  in 
public,  when  two  thousand  others  came  and  a  few 
spoiled  their  gloves  and  things?"  The  dainty 
chin  trembled  a  bit  though  it  was  high  in  air,  the 
eyelids  were  half  closed.  "Are  you  really  glad, 
Bob?" 

Slowly,  as  she  spoke,  the  face  of  the  man  shaded 
red,  redder  than  sun  could  burn,  than  winter  storms 
could  colour.  But  he  offered  no  defence. 

"Yes,  I'm  very  glad,  Peg,"  he  repeated  simply. 
"More  so  than  you  know." 

From  the  knee-high  grass  about  her  the  girl 
reached  down  and  plucked  a  blade. 

"And  still  you  did  not  meet  me,"  she  said. 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest         227 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  coming.  I  haven't  got 
my  mail  in  a  long  time  and — I  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  thing." 

Bit  by  bit  the  grass  blade  was  being  torn  to  frag- 
ments and,  all-seeing,  the  spectator  observed  that 
the  destroying  fingers  were  trembling. 

"Didn't  you  suppose  I  cared  what  you  were 
doing  even  though  you — hadn't  been  to  see  me, 
Bob?" 

The  man's  great  hands  dropped  to  his  side,  mak- 
ing his  stooping  shoulders  seem  rounder  than  be- 
fore. 

"Yes,  I  knew  that  you  cared,"  he  echoed.  "I 
never  doubted  you,  Peg." 

Intentionally  or  unintentionally  the  reproach 
passed  unheeded.  The  moment  was  too  big  for  the 
girl  to  notice.  Instead,  grave  as  before,  she  met  his 
eyes. 

"And  now  that  I  have  come,  Bob — "  she  sug- 
gested. 

For  five  seconds  the  man  returned  the  look,  the 
reticence  of  a  lifetime  struggling  for  release,  (a 
prayer  for  an  explanation  that  would  not  be  like- 
wise a  disclosure  unvoiced  throbbing  in  his  brain. 
But  no  answer  came.  Save  the  truth,  which  he 
would  not  himself  reveal,  none  was  possible.  As 
the  seconds  passed  he  forgot  time.  Only  the  irony 
of  the  meeting  to  which  he  had  looked  forward 
for  so  long,  that  should  have  been  so  glad  and  was 


228  The  Quest  Eternal 

not,  grew  upon  him.  Silent,  he  merely  returned 
the  look. 

"And  now  that  I  have  come,"  repeated  the  voice, 
lower  than  before,  the  unspoken  suggestion  more  in- 
sistent, "what  now,  Bob?" 

"Now?"  The  man  aroused,  the  self-conscious 
awkwardness  suddenly  past.  "Now?  I  hardly 
know,  Peg.  I  haven't  any  place  decent  to  invite 
you  to,  anything  decent  to  offer " 

Interrupting,  the  girl's  hand  indicated  the  old 
home. 

"Don't  you  live  there  any  more?" 

The  man  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment.  It 
was  useless  to  lie — yet. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Let's  go  there,  then." 

Without  a  word  the  man  returned  to  the  team. 
As  before,  of  necessity  he  limped;  but  not  as  be- 
fore, awkwardly  conscious.  He  would  not  do  so 
again.  He  had  had  time  to  think — and  knew  things 
as  they  were.  Whatever  dreams  he  may  still  have 
cherished,  whatever  wild  fancies  of  youth  that  pre- 
viously lingered,  had  passed.  In  the  first  speechless 
look  they  had  passed.  The  way  before  him  was 
clear  now,  the  only  way,  and  in  it,  Scotch  stolid, 
Scotch  undeviating,  he  followed. 

Back  in  the  road  with  his  team  he  halted  and 
helped  the  girl  into  the  livery  buggy,  exactly  as  he 
would  have  assisted  a  chance  acquaintance,  as 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest          229 

gravely  courteous.  At  the  farm-house  when  he  ar- 
rived he  took  care  of  the  horses  first,  as  was  his 
wont,  as  though  the  visit  were  one  of  every-day 
occurrence.  The  house  to  which  he  returned  was 
unbelievably  bare,  indescribably  hot  and  stuffy  even 
to  one  who,  like  the  girl,  had  memories;  but  he 
offered  no  further  apology.  Instead  he  brought 
the  one  chair  it  contained  out  of  doors  to  the  shady 
east  side  and  found  a  convenient  box  for  himself. 
That  was  all. 

Mechanically  as  though  the  whole  drama  were  a 
dream,  an  evil  dream  from  which  she  would  pres- 
ently awaken,  the  girl  followed  his  lead.  Like  the 
man  himself,  she  was  undergoing  a  readjustment  of 
the  situation  between  them;  but  not  like  him  pas- 
sively. She  was  not  Scotch  and  she  did  not  see  her 
way  yet.  Not  until  the  prologue  was  complete  and 
they  were  sitting  there  face  to  face  in  the  long  after- 
noon shadow  did  the  full  meaning  of  it  all  come 
over  her,  the  ironically  bitter  alteration  take  full 
hold.  Then  came  the  overflow,  the  outburst  which 
the  other  knew  was  inevitable,  that  had  been  but 
delayed. 

"Bob,"  she  said  suddenly,  passionately,  "this 
farce  has  gone  on  long  enough.  What  does  it  all 
mean :  you  living  so ;  the  place  the  way  it  is  ?  Why 
haven't  you  been  to  see  me  or  let  me  come  when  I 
asked?  I  must  know  now,  Bob."  Passionate, 
throbbing  she  leaned  forward,  held  him  with  her 


230  The  Quest  Eternal 

eyes.  "There's  something  you've  been  keeping 
back  from  me,  something  I  ought  to  know.  Tell 
me  what  it  is,  Bob  ?" 

For  a  moment  the  man  did  not  stir  in  his  place, 
nor  speak.  Then,  deliberately,  for  the  first  time 
that  day,  he  smiled.  Into  her  very  eyes,  calm  as  the 
afternoon  sunshine,  he  smiled;  the  old,  slow,  infre- 
quent smile. 

"I  begin  to  recognise  you  now,  Peg,"  he  said. 
"You're  like  you  used  to  be  when  you  were  a  young- 
ster and — skinny,  and  the  pigs  or  the  chickens  got 
into  the  garden  when  we  men  folks  were  away  at 
work."  He  smiled  again  until  the  old  crow's  feet 
got  into  the  angles  of  his  temples,  only  their  num- 
ber was  augmented  now.  "I  guess  you  haven't 
changed  much,  after  all,  Peg." 

"But  tell  me,  Bob,"  insisted  the  girl.  She  did  not 
smile,  not  because  she  recognised  the  acting,  it  was 
too  perfect  for  that,  but  because  the  moment  was 
too  big,  the  shadow  too  deep.  "Tell  me  what's 
the  matter." 

"What's  the  matter  with  what,  Peg?" 

"With  what !  With  everything !"  It  was  almost 
anger,  a  hopeful  sign.  "First  of  all  the  farm.  I 
told  them  in  town  I  wanted  a  rig  to  drive  out  here 
and  they  stared.  They  said  there  wasn't  any  such 
place  as  McLeod's  that  they  knew  of.  Then  I 
asked  for  you  and  they  grinned.  You  were  here, 
they  said,  but  the  place  was  Brady's  place." 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest          231 

The  man  was  still  smiling,  his  hands  locked  over 
his  knees. 

"It  is  Brady's  place,"  he  explained,  "since  he 
bought  it.  There's  nothing  the  matter  there  so 
far  as  I  can  see." 

"Why  did  you  sell,  Bob?" 

"Because  I'm  going  away  this  fall  for  one  thing. 
I  wrote  you  that,  you  remember.  I  can't  very 
well  plough  corn  and  go  to  school  both  at  the 
same  time." 

"And  the — house."  It  was  only  half  conviction. 
"There  isn't  enough  in  it  to  keep  a  cat." 

"Sold  too,"  evenly.  "I'm  not  thinking  of  furnish- 
ing a  cottage  when  I  go  to  town." 

Apparently  the  logic  was  without  a  flaw,  but  com- 
plete assurance  was  not  yet. 

"How  about  your  not  coming  to  see  me  when  I 
asked  it  again  and  again.  I  can't  quite  forgive  that, 
Bob." 

The  smile  on  the  man's  face  faded.  For  a  mo- 
ment there  was  silence ;  but  for  a  moment  only. 

"That  was  unkind  of  me,  Peg,  I  know,"  he  said 
swiftly.  "I  meant  to  come,  really;  but  always  at 
the  critical  time  something  turned  up  to  prevent." 
It  was  a  torrent  and  inadequate  that  sudden  flow  of 
words,  but  it  was  the  best  the  man  could  do.  "You 
know  how  busy  it  always  is  here,  especially  in  the 
spring  at  the  time  you  graduated,  and  help  has  been 
hard  to  get."  He  did  not  pause.  He  dared  not. 


232  The  Quest  Eternal 

What  hope  he  had  was  in  sheer  quantity  of  explana- 
tion. "I've  been  alone  most  of  the  time  and  it 
seemed  to  me  just  impossible  to  go.  I  don't  blame 
you  for  feeling  as  you  do.  I'd  feel  just  the  same 
if  I  were  in  your  place.  But  you  will  forgive  it, 
now  that  it's  all  over,  won't  you,  Peg?  You  will, 
won't  you,  if  I  ask  it?" 

Openly  now  the  girl  watched  him  as  he  was  speak- 
ing. Frankly,  unshiftingly  the  man  returned  the 
look.  It  was  the  time  to  lie  now  and  he  knew  it. 
Therefore  he  was  lying;  by  word,  by  action,  by 
look;  with  his  whole  soul,  as  he  did  everything. 
There  was  no  immediate  answer,  and  with  his  whole 
soul  he  lied  anew.  "You  will  forgive  me,  won't 
you,  Peg?"  he  repeated. 

It  was  submission  absolute,  that  last  query;  con- 
trition unmistakable.  Involuntarily  the  long  lashes 
dropped  over  the  girl's  eyes.  The  small  chin  that 
had  been  so  high  lowered  in  surrender.  That  mo- 
ment sacrifice  had  its  reward,  for  that  moment  came 
conviction. 

"Yes,  I  forgive  you,  Bob,"  she  said  low.  "I  felt 
hurt  terribly  when  you  didn't  come ;  especially  this 
last  time,  for  I'd  planned  on  it  so.  It  was  foolish 
of  me,  I  know;  but  it  was  a  kind  of  triumph,  that 
first  appearance,  and  I  wanted  you  to  see."  In- 
voluntarily the  long  lashes  winked  hard,  for  she 
was  a  creature  of  moods,  this  girl  in  white.  "But  I 
understand  now,  Bob.  I  don't  blame  you  any  more." 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest          233 

In  his  place  still  the  other  did  not  stir.  Neither 
did  he  waste  time  with  the  superfluous.  Unerr- 
ingly he  had  seen  his  lead.  Unerringly  he  followed 
his  instinct. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Peg,  that  night,"  he  said.  No 
need  to  designate  what  night.  "Tell  me." 

"Do  you  want  to  hear,  really  ?"  The  damp  lashes 
had  lifted  leaving  the  brown  eyes  glorious.  "Do 
you  really  care,  Bob?" 

"Care!"  No  need  of  acting  this  time.  "Care! 
More  than  I  care  for  anything  else  in  the  world, 
Peg." 

It  was  the  last  barrier  removed  from  confidence, 
the  opening  of  the  floodgates  of  speech. 

"It  was  June  3d,  that  night;  just  five  weeks  ago." 
The  girl  straightened  unconsciously,  unconsciously 
her  breath  came  quick.  "I'd  never  appeared  before, 
only  to  a  few.  Nobody  much  had  ever  heard  me ; 
but  a  lot  had  heard  of  me.  Madame  Ziska  had  ar- 
ranged that.  She'd  arranged  everything  else,  too 
— set  the  date  and  sent  the  announcements.  There 
were  three  others  on  the  programme :  two  girls  like 
myself  who  were  making  their  first  appearance,  the 
other  a  Polish  violinist  with  an  unpronounceable 
name  who'd  already  arrived;  but  the  thing  was 
really  for  me.  Everybody  who  was  invited  knew  it, 
and  I  knew  it  as  well.  It  was  to  be  the  chance  of 
my  life,  my  moment,  to  make  or  to  fail." 

Instinctively  again  the  girl  halted,  looking  out 


234  The  Quest  Eternal 

over  the  unkept  farm-yard  onto  the  green  fields 
beyond.  But  that  familiar  scene  was  lost  upon  her 
now.  Far  indeed  was  she  from  the  Dakota  frontier 
that  moment,  far  as  the  two  ends  of  civilisation. 

"The  concert  was  to  be  held  in  the  Auditorium 
and  was  a  Charity  Concert.  The  papers  all  an- 
nounced it  and  commented  on  it.  The  big  ones  of 
the  profession,  musicians  and  others,  were  all  to 
be  there.  I  knew  that  too.  For  months  I'd  known 
it  was  coming,  and  had  been  getting  ready;  but  that 
last  day  was  awful.  I  wanted  to  run  and  hide,  to 
die,  anything  to  escape — but  I  couldn't  and  time 
went  on.  I'd  never  known  what  it  was  to  be  nerv- 
ous in  my  life — until  that  last  afternoon,  never 
dreamed  there  was  such  torture.  But  somehow  it 
passed  and  evening  came,  the  evening,  my  evening." 

For  the  second  time  the  speaker  paused,  her  hands 
locked  in  her  lap,  pressed  tight. 

"Then  followed  the  end.  I  came  third  on  the 
programme  and  was  there  all  ready  awaiting  my 
turn.  I  couldn't  keep  still  and  wandered  out  into 
the  wings  to  watch  and  listen.  Before  this,  time  had 
dragged ;  dragged  endlessly,  an  eternity  to  an  hour. 
Now  it  flew.  I  tried  to  count  the  minutes  to  make 
them  last,  but  I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  do  anything 
but  just  walk  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth.  But 
meantime  I  was  listening  and  all  at  once — the  Pole 
had  been  playing — the  music  stopped,  there  was  a 
roar  of  applause  and,  bowing  to  the  last,  he  came 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest          235 

out  into  the  wings.  I  hoped  he  would  get  an  encore, 
prayed  for  it,  but  he  didn't — and  it  was  my  turn." 

No  pause  this  time  in  the  flow  of  words,  no  halt; 
but,  watching,  the  listener  saw  the  tiny  hands  lock 
tighter  than  before. 

"Then  I  went  out,  the  first  time  I'd  ever  appeared 
on  any  stage,  the  first  time  I'd  ever  looked  into  a 
swarm  of  faces  such  as  that.  For  the  house  was 
packed,  packed  to  the  galleries,  boxes  and  all.  Yet 
there  wasn't  a  sound,  hardly  a  motion.  They  didn't 
know  me  yet  and  were  waiting  judgment.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  place  was  never  so  still  as  that  was  then.  I 
could  hear  my  slippers  patter,  and  the  swish  of  my 
dress,  and  my  heart — I  could  fairly  hear  it  beat. 
But  somehow  I  went  on,  half  across  the  stage  and 
forward  clear  to  the  footlights,  and  stopped.  Then 
for  the  first  time  I  really  looked  around,  into  the 
faces  of  those  near,  into  the  blur  of  the  distance — 
and  that  instant,  Bob,  something  happened — some- 
thing miraculous.  Until  that  second  my  heart  had 
been  in  my  throat,  choking  tight,  my  legs  so  shaky 
I  could  hardly  stand — but  now  in  a  flash  that  all 
passed.  Almost  before  the  accompanist  began,  it 
passed,  the  very  instant  I  stopped  and  looked  at 
them,  face  to  face.  All  at  once  I  was  myself  again, 
just  as  I  am  now  and  not  afraid  in  the  least,  or  ner- 
vous. And  that  second  I  knew,  Bob,  what  I'd  never 
known  before,  what  I'd  hoped  and  hoped  but  never 
actually  known:  that  I  was  going  to  succeed,  that 


236  The  Quest  Eternal 

I  was  at  home,  In  my  own  place;  that  I  had  it  in  me 
to  be  a  singer." 

In  the  girl's  lap  the  clenched  fingers  loosened.  In 
the  far-away  eyes  a  new  look  appeared;  one 
strange  to  the  watcher,  alien :  the  look  of  one  who 
has  tasted  and  tasted  deep  of  the  cup  of  life. 

"Then  I  sang  as  I  never  sang  before,  as  maybe 
I'll  never  sing  again.  I  sang  to  all  the  world  that 
moment :  a  challenge  to  it.  I  seemed  to  remember 
everything,  live  everything,  like  lightning.  My 
whole  life  ran  through  my  head,  the  bitterness  and 
the  injustice;  and  I  challenged  it  too.  I  guess  I 
was  intoxicated,  I  know  I  was.  The  world  was 
mine,  mine,  the  world  I'd  been  crying  for,  had  been 
looking  at  so  longingly,  myself  hid;  and  I  was  glad. 
I  felt  like  a  bird  in  the  springtime  when  the  skies 
are  blue,  like  the  creek  here  when  the  first  thaw  un- 
locks it,  and  I  sang  it  all.  As  the  seconds  had 
dragged  through  the  day,  now  they  flew,  for  I  had 
forgotten  time ;  and  all  at  once  I  was  at  the  end  and 
the  place  silent. 

"Then,  just  for  a  second,  the  present  returned  and 
with  a  bound  my  heart  came  back  into  my  throat.  I 
wondered  if  they  down  there,  below,  the  sea  of 
faces,  would  realise,  would  understand;  if  I  had 
really  done  what  I  thought  I  had  done.  For  an 
instant  I  grew  cold  all  over,  for  they  were  silent. 
In  a  dream  I  bowed,  in  a  dream  started  to  leave — 
and  then  it  came:  a  whirlwind,  a  cyclone  of  ap- 


A  Glimpse  of  the  Quest         237 

plause  such  as  I  had  never  before  heard — and 
sweet !  I  could  hear  then  from  where  I  was  out  in 
the  wing,  hear  it — the  applause — roll  and  roll  as 
they  called  me  back.  I  waited  to  hear  it,  it  was  so 
sweet,  waited  as  long  as  I  dared. .  Finally  I  went 
out  and  bowed,  only  bowed,  and — they  went  wild. 
I  thought  it  was  applause  before,  but  it  wasn't.  It 
was  only  a  forestate  to  this,  an  introduction.  It 
almost  made  me  afraid.  It  meant  too  much,  de- 
manded too  much ;  but  there  was  no  retreating  now 
and  at  last  I  returned." 

For  the  first  time  the  voice  halted  and  remained 
silent,  as  though  the  story  was  complete.  In  the 
great  dark  eyes  the  far-away  look  still  held;  but 
from  them  the  mystery  was  gone.  As  suddenly  as 
the  outburst  had  come  it  subsided.  The  tiny  hands 
lay  loose  in  her  lap,  brown  in  contrast  with  the 
white  background. 

"And  then?"  suggested  the  man  evenly.  "What 
happened  then,  Peg?" 

"Then?"  The  girl  roused,  but  not  as  before.  The 
fire  had  burned  dead,  not  to  be  rekindled.  "It  was 
the  same  thing  over.  I  sang  four  times  before  they 
let  me  go." 

This  time  silence  fell  to  remain  for  long  unbroken. 
To  have  done  so  then  to  the  man  were  sacrilege ;  to 
the  girl  the  lapse  was  unnoted.  She  was  still  look- 
ing out  onto  the  prairie,  over  the  lengthening 
shadow  of  the  house;  but  as  before  she  saw  it  not. 


238  The  Quest  Eternal 

She  had  forgotten  completely,  as  from  childhood 
she  had  a  bit  of  doing,  when  in  the  presence  of  the 
other.  And  Bob  McLeod  waited,  patient  as  time, 
patient  as  his  race.  Minutes  passed  on;  minutes 
which  in  the  light  of  what  had  just  transpired  was 
as  relentless  as  fate,  that  bore  their  prophecy  of 
future,  his  and  hers,  as  unmistakably  as  the  hand- 
writing upon  the  wall.  He  was  not  a  fool,  or  blind, 
this  farmer  man,  and  he  knew.  Yet  he  said  nothing, 
gave  no  hint  of  the  revelation,  the  knowledge.  He 
only  waited.  Perhaps  he  worshipped,  for  he  was 
forgotten  and  in  so  doing  he  could  work  no  harm. 
Not  until,  inevitably  changing,  the  girl's  mood 
altered,  until  returning,  the  eyes  rested  upon  him 
meaningly,  questioningly,  did  he  move.  Then,  pre- 
venting, he  arose. 

"I  think  I'd  better  get  the  horse  now,  Peg,"  he 
said  simply.  "It's  getting  late." 

"The  horse?"  The  girl  did  not  stir  in  her  place. 
"You  mean  I'm  to — go  back  to  town — now?" 

"Aren't  you  ready,  Peg?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  long  look. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  so  soon,  Bob  ?" 

The  man's  gaze  did  not  falter  nor  did  he  lie  this  time. 

"I  think  it  were  better,  Peg.    I'll  go  with  you." 

A  moment  longer  the  duel  lasted,  an  eternity  to 
Robert  McLeod;  then  deliberately  the  girl's  eyes 
dropped. 

"Very  well,  Bob,"  she  said.    "I'm  ready." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  TRAIL  DIVIDES 

FAR  to  the  west  over  the  level  earth  the  sky  blazed 
red  where  the  sun  had  set.  All  about  the  mat  of 
green  that  stretched  to  the  horizon  lay  velvet  green, 
velvet  still.  The  wind  of  the  afternoon  had  hushed, 
until  its  voice  had  passed  into  the  silence  of  obliv- 
ion. Night,  prairie  night,  was  approaching  and 
the  hush  that  precedes  it  was  already  upon  the 
land. 

Along  the  road  leading  to  the  little  town  a  livery 
rig  was  jogging.  Although  the  pace  was  slow,  a 
typical  livery  beast  amble,  neither  a  walk  nor  a 
trot,  it  was  nevertheless  surely  eating  up  the  miles. 
Of  the  twenty  odd  intervening  between  the  farm 
and  the  town,  ten  were  already  behind ;  but  of  this 
fact  there  was  no  surface  indication,  no  definite 
marking  on  the  horizon  sky-line  to  give  testimony. 
Before,  stretched  two  dust  brown  bands  with  a 
wider  space  of  green  between.  Behind,  extended 
the  same  perspective;  back  and  back  until  the  two 
lines  merged  and  mingled  with  the  ubiquitous 
green. 

Within  the  rig  itself  were  the  same  man  and  girl 
who  had  sat  in  the  farm-house  shadow.  In  the  time 


240  The  Quest  Eternal 

that  had  intervened  they  had  of  necessity  talked; 
but  what  they  had  said  neither  remembered  nor 
either  cared.  To  conceal  thought,  not  to  reveal  it, 
they  had  spoken ;  and  to  both  the  artifice  had  been 
pitifully  apparent.  Now  at  last  for  minutes  they 
had  been  silent;  an  interim  of  which  both  knew  the 
meaning,  a  prelude  to  the  real  understanding  which 
likewise  both  knew  was  inevitable. 

For  as  surely  as  fate  had  brought  their  ways  to- 
gether in  the  past,  they  were  parting.  As  yet  they 
were  not  far  separate,  had  not  passed  beyond  touch- 
ing distance;  but  day  by  day  they  were  growing 
more  widely  divergent.  This  the  girl  had  known 
ere  she  returned.  This  the  man  had  realised  in 
that  first  long  look.  Ironical  as  was  the  fact,  un- 
just as  it  might  be,  it  was  nevertheless  true.  In- 
evitably two  trails,  or  one  of  two,  stretched  before 
them.  As  yet  the  choosing  of  that  course  was 
theirs;  but  the  time  of  choice  was  now — and  once 
selected  the  decision  was  as  unalterable  as  time. 

This  they  knew  that  summer  evening  as  they 
moved  on  and  on  in  that  interminable  jog.  This 
the  certainty  that  held  them  silent  while  each  waited 
for  the  other  to  speak.  This  again  the  motive  that 
prompted  a  question  when  at  last  the  girl  could  keep 
silence  no  longer. 

"And  you,  Bob?"  she  queried  suddenly,  as  though 
it  were  the  past  second  and  not  two  hours  before 
that  she  had  spoken  of  herself.  "I've  told  you 


The  Trail  Divides  241 

what  I've  been  doing  these  past  six  years.  What  of 
you?" 

"I?"  There  was  no  surprise,  no  hesitation. 
"I've  been  drifting,  I  guess.  I've  done  nothing 
much." 

"Nothing?"    It  was  more  than  a  suggestion. 

"Nothing  that  counts.    I've  been  growing  older." 

"And  now  that  you  are  older?" 

"I'm  ready  to  begin  to  find  out  what  life  has  in 
store  for  me."  A  pause.  "Ready  to  learn  whether 
I  am  to  plough  corn  to  the  end  or  not." 

It  was  neither  hopelessness  nor  optimism  that  even 
statement ;  but  neutral — neutral  as  the  colour  of  the 
prairie  sky  between  darkness  and  light. 

"You  don't  know  yet,  Bob?"  quickly. 

Another  halt. 

"How  should  I  know — until  I  try." 

The  girl  sank  back  in  her  seat,  her  hands  closed 
in  her  lap ;  as  they  had  closed  when  she  was  telling 
of  that  day  in  June,  her  day. 

"Tell  me  what  you  intend  doing,  Bob,"  she  said, 
"tell  me  everything  frankly.  You're  not  taking  me 
into  your  confidence,  honest,  the  way  you  used  to. 
I  must  know  everything,  now." 

"Must,  Peg?"  slowly. 

The  girl  looked  away,  at  nothing.  "Yes,  must," 
she  echoed. 

"Why,  please?    Tell  me  why." 

No  answer. 


242  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Why  must  you  know  now,  Peg?" 

"I'll  answer  afterward,  if  you  wish;  but  first  tell 
me." 

The  man  pressed  the  inquiry  no  further.  Seem- 
ingly he  forgot  it. 

"There's  nothing  particular  to  tell,"  he  said.  "I'm 
going  to  start  in  at  the  Medical  School  this  fall; 
but  you  know  that  already." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Bob;  but  afterwards?  You've  got 
some  plans  certainly  farther  than  that." 

Slowly  the  man  turned  in  his  place  and  smiled  de- 
liberately into  the  earnest  restless  face  so  near. 

"No,  I  have  no  plans  after  that,  Peg,"  he  said. 

But  the  girl  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer,  not 
then. 

"I  can't  believe  you,  Bob,"  she  said  swiftly.  "You 
simply  must  have  some  ambition  beyond  the  present. 
You  simply  must.  It's  unlike  you  absolutely  not 
to  have."  She  halted  for  breath,  her  words  came 
tumbling  fast  "After  the  way  we  used  to  plan 
when  we  were  children;  at  night,  when  the  day's 
work  was  over  and  we  couldn't  sleep;  after  the 
story  you  told  me  of  your  grandfather,  how  he 
tried  and  tried,  and  your  father — "  She  checked 
herself,  the  wordy  flow  as  well.  "I  can't  believe 
it,  Bob.  I  won't.  You  haven't  changed  so  abso- 
lutely in  these  last  years  I've  been  away.  Please 
be  honest  with  me,  Bob,  and  tell  me.  Please." 

She  halted,  her  breath  coming  quick,  her  dark  eyes 


The  Trail  Divides  243 

directly  upon  him  in  an  inspection  that  was  micro- 
scopic in  its  intensity.  Bit  by  bit  in  these  last  min- 
utes the  commonplace,  the  prosaic,  had  passed 
away.  Intentionally  she  had  made  it  pass.  The 
moment  was  too  vital  for  it  to  remain  so.  Not  for 
nothing  had  she  made  that  return  unbidden.  A 
definite  object  had  prompted;  an  object  of  which 
she  was  not  ashamed,  which  she  made  no  effort  to 
conceal.  It  was  that  object  which  prompted  now, 
unerringly,  insistently ;  a  purpose  that  would  not  be 
balked,  that  demanded,  as  the  hungry  demand  food 
— a  response.  "Tell  me,  please,  Bob,"  she  repeated 
low,  and  like  an  echo  pleadingly  insistent:  "please 
tell  me." 

In  his  place  the  man  did  not  stir,  not  even  to  meet 
her  eyes,  though  he  knew  she  was  looking  at  him. 
He  did  not  smile  now,  this  man.  As  nature  was 
his  judge  he  could  not.  With  him,  as  with  the  girl, 
the  moment  was  too  big  for  affectation  now,  too 
vital.  The  comedy  of  the  afternoon  had  been  a 
prelude.  Now  at  last  they  were  down  to  funda- 
mentals. This  he  knew  as  he  knew  his  own  name, 
as  those  past  six  years  he  had  known  life.  As  cer- 
tainly as  the  girl  beside  him  had  had  her  day  in 
June,  he  was  now  having  his  day.  Out  of  choice, 
of  purpose  she  was  giving  it  to  him.  Once  before, 
when  they  were  children  in  years,  she  had  done  the 
same — and  he  had  let  the  time,  his  day,  his  moment, 
pass.  Now  again,  when  they  were  mature,  she  had 


244  The  Quest  Eternal 

returned  to  offer  it  anew.  He  was  not  blind,  this 
farmer  man,  this  tiller  of  corn  fields,  and  he  knew. 
With  wide-open  eyes  he  saw  the  lead  she  had  volun- 
tarily made.  The  thought,  the  knowledge,  intoxi- 
cated him — for  he  was  human.  Without  turning, 
from  memory's  picture  of  the  afternoon,  he  saw 
her  as  she  was;  not  the  lanky  Peg  Stanton  he  had 
known,  but  the  woman  mature,  immeasurably  more 
than  he  had  ever  dreamed  she  would  be ;  a  vision  of 
the  world  which  he  had  never  seen,  of  which  he  had 
but  dreamed.  This  she  was  and  she  had  returned  to 
him,  Bob  McLeod.  He  was  not  God  and  his  heart 
beat  fast  at  the  thought.  The  thing  he  desired  most 
on  earth  was  his  for  the  asking,  for  the  taking.  He 
could  not  misunderstand  if  he  would,  would  not  if 
he  could. 

This  the  knowledge  that  confronted  him  there  on 
the  prairie,  the  peril  with  only  himself  to  guide.  And 
under  it  he  was  silent ;  when  she  had  spoken  once, 
when  she  had  repeated  the  inquiry.  Thought  is 
not  lagging  like  words,  and  now  his  brain  seethed 
with  thought.  In  a  panorama  his  own  life,  hers, 
flashed  before  him.  Through  it  all  his  loneliness, 
his  insistent  need,  mingled,  a  background  colouring 
the  whole.  Through  it  all  as  well  flamed  his  love, 
for  he  could  not  deny  it  now,  it  was  useless ;  making 
wrong  right,  dominating  everything.  No  need  of 
saying  what  he  wanted  to  tell  her,  what  he  wanted 
to  do.  To  say  a  living  thing  wants  life  were  not 


The  Trail  Divides  245 

more  superfluous.  No  need  of  saying  what  he  felt 
his  due.  But  still  he  did  not  speak.  Though  it 
seemed  to  him  the  seconds  were  eternities,  he  did 
not  speak.  Down  deep  in  his  soul,  beneath  his  own 
desire,  beneath  his  own  love,  was  something  bigger, 
stronger,  more  dominant.  This  he  knew,  even  now, 
and  he  was  waiting  for  it  to  speak,  for  it  to  lead. 
More  vital  infinitely  than  his  own  happiness  was  the 
happiness  of  another,  of  this  girl  beside  him.  Thus 
beneath  his  stolid  Scotch  exterior,  nature  had  made 
him.  In  the  decision  of  what  he  would  say,  that 
consideration  would  be  first.  He  was  facing  that 
necessity  now,  fairly,  unflinchingly;  facing  it  as  he 
faced  every  other  crisis  of  his  life,  as  forcedly  ab- 
stract as  though  It  was  the  fate  of  another. 

And  the  consideration  that  would  not  be  evaded 
was  this:  Could  he,  Bob  McLeod,  the  cripple, 
the  frontiersman,  make  her  happy?  She  had  seen 
life,  tasted  it,  felt  its  insistent  throb  in  her  veins. 
Once,  long  before,  they  were  even — equally  igno- 
rant. Since  then  she  had  grown  and  he  had  stood 
still.  That  her  growth  had  been  from  him,  at  his 
expense,  he  did  not  consider,  would  not  consider. 
The  bare  fact  alone  remained.  They  were  not 
equal  now.  Her  wants  were  greater,  her  ambi- 
tions bigger,  her  possibilities  infinitely  more  cer- 
tain. He  could  not  deceive  himself,  much  as  he 
wished.  It  was  so.  His  own  potentialities  were 
vague,  his  ambitions  brain-creatures  alone.  In  her 


246  The  Quest  Eternal 

own  trail  she  could  go  on,  would  go  on — and  up 
and  up.  In  his  trail  she  must  wait — and  for  an  un- 
certainty. Mentally  swift  he  reasoned  it  all  out, 
for  the  under  voice  was  speaking  now,  leading. 
And  what  had  he  to  offer  in  return,  what  in  ex- 
tenuation ?  Nothing  that  a  myriad  other  men  could 
not  give,  would  not  give  gladly — to  her.  This  he 
knew  also,  for  he  was  not  blind.  The  evidence  was 
all  against  him,  all  negative.  Only  the  selfish  urged 
him  on;  his  own  pleasure  against  what  was  best — 
for  her.  Of  this  there  could  be  no  doubt,  now  that 
he  had  thought.  Likewise,  now  that  he  had 
thought,  there  was  no  question  of  what  he  should 
do.  Like  the  twin  bands  of  brown  that  stretched 
into  the  green  before  him  his  course  was  plain. 
This  he  knew  and  still  he  hesitated.  As  he  had 
never  hesitated  before  a  duty  in  his  life,  he  hesi- 
tated. For  now,  to  the  full,  to  its  bitter  certainty, 
he  realised  the  finality  of  the  course  he  must  choose, 
the  blankness  of  future  absolute  it  necessitated.  To 
sacrifice  one's  self  for  another  and  die  is  easy,  when 
the  blood  is  up.  To  sacrifice  and  live  on  and  on, 

year  after  year,  inexorably,  interminably 

"Bob,"  interrupting,  pleading  a  tiny  brown  hand 
dropped  to  his  shoulder,  lay  there  insistently. 
"Talk  to  me,  tell  me,  please.  We  can't  drift  any 
longer,  you  and  I,  Bob.  We  must  understand  each 
other,  everything.  Tell  me  what  I  asked,  please.  It 
isn't  right  to  keep  me  in  suspense.  It  isn't  fair  to  me." 


The  Trail  Divides  247 

"Peg !"  The  touch  of  her  hand  that  moment  was 
fire.  Responsive,  unreasoningly,  almost  fiercely, 
the  man  turned.  "Peg!"  Involuntarily  the  reins 
in  his  grip  tightened  until  the  horse  stopped  there 
on  the  prairie.  "Peg!"  for  the  third  time,  and  he 
was  looking  her  fair;  the  love  of  a  lifetime  blaz- 
ing in  his  eyes,  the  desire  of  present  struggling 
against  the  inevitable. 

A  moment  they  sat  there,  the  barrier  down  at  last, 
realities  staring  fair  into  each  other's  faces,  things 
surreptitiously  hidden  and  ignored  no  longer  con- 
cealed. An  instant  longer  they  remained  so,  each 
tingling  with  the  sudden  knowledge  of  the  revela- 
tion, each  oblivious  of  passing  time;  an  infinity  of 
suddenly  awakened  thoughts  whirling  in  their 
brains.  Unconsciously  in  the  fleeting  seconds  the 
girl's  hand  had  dropped,  equally  unconsciously  she 
drew  back  with  the  unreasoning  terror  that  is  femi- 
ninity innate.  Then  as  suddenly  came  the  reaction. 
The  present  returned. 

"Pardon  me,  Peg,"  said  the  man  low.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  do  that  or  to  frighten  you."  He  loosened 
the  reins  and  shook  them  over  the  horse's  back.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  tell  what  I  did  at  all." 

The  girl  said  nothing.  With  the  reaction,  her 
face  had  gone  into  her  hands,  hidden  as  when  she 
was  a  child. 

The  man  clucked  to  the  horse  monotonously,  with 
studied  deliberation. 


248  The  Quest  Eternal 

"I  had  meant  you  to  go  away  as  you  had  come, 
without  knowing.  I  think  it  would  have  been  bet- 
ter so  for  both  of  us."  He  was  not  looking  at  her 
but  straight  ahead.  "But  now  it's  too  late.  I  for- 
got for  a  second — everything.  I — forgot." 

From  out  the  soft  brown  hands  came  a  soft  brown 
face,  a  wondering  face. 

"Forgot?"  hesitatingly. 

No  answer,  nor  the  motion  of  an  eyelash. 

"Forgot  what,  Bob  ?" 

For  an  instant  the  man  remained  so;  then,  de- 
liberately as  before,  without  a  downward  glance, 
one  hand  pointed  to  his  crippled  foot  stretched  out 
before  him  in  the  buggy. 

"Forgot  that,  for  one  thing,"  he  said. 

"Bob  !"  The  man  never  ceased  hearing  that  sud- 
den cry.  "Bob !"  That  was  all. 

Still  another  instant  so;  then  the  same  monoto- 
nously deliberate  voice: 

"There  are  other  things  also;  things  I  forgot — for 
a  second." 

No  answer,  but  at  last  there  was  a  sound ;  a  sound 
of  hysterical  sobbing  that  would  not  be  smothered. 

Yet,  relentlessly,  doggedly,  the  voice  went  on  with 
its  task. 

"As  you  say,  Peg,"  he  reiterated,  "we  may  as  well 
understand  everything  now  and  have  it  over.  Our 
roads  don't  lie  together  as  I  thought  once,  as  I 
think  we  both  thought  when  we  were  children.  God 


The  Trail  Divides  249 

knows  I  wish  it  were  so,  I've  hoped  it  were  so ;  but 
it  isn't  and  I  may  as  well  accept."  Involuntarily  he 
straightened,  his  great  work-hardened  hands  came 
together  in  his  lap.  "We're  not  equals,  Peg,  and 
no  power  on  earth  can  make  us  equals.  Don't  inter- 
rupt, please,"  for  of  a  sudden  a  glorious  damp  face 
had  lifted,  protestingly,  defiantly,  "let  me  say  what 
I  have  in  mind.  It  isn't  pleasant  I  know,  but  we 
may  as  well  understand.  First  of  all,  Peg,  you're 
beautiful.  I  know  it  and  you  know  it,  we're  neither 
blind  nor  fools;  and  beauty  is  power,  girl.  You 
have  this  and  I — am  deformed.  You  think  yet  I 
won't  be  so  always  perhaps,  but  I  will."  Again  he 
halted  suddenly  in  protest.  "Please  don't,  Peg," 
he  pleaded  swiftly.  "I  must  tell  things  as  they  are, 
you  must  know.  Maybe  if  they'd  operated  when  I 
was  young  it  might  have  been  different.  But  now 
the  time  has  gone  by.  I  saw  two  surgeons  last 
winter,  two  big  surgeons,  and  they  both  said  the 
same.  I'm  a  cripple  for  life,  Peg;  and  you  are — 
what  you  are.  If  there  was  nothing  else  that  made 
us  unequal  that  were  enough,  more  than  enough. 
But  there  is." 

Of  a  sudden  he  halted,  on  the  surface  a  man  of 
stone;  beneath — his  Maker  alone  knew  what  was 
beneath.  For  the  girl  was  not  listening  now.  Not 
that  she  had  interrupted  him,  not  that;  but  for  him 
worse,  infinitely.  For  as  he  had  never  heard  a 
human  being  weep  before  she  was  weeping  now; 


250  The  Quest  Eternal 

hysterically,  in  abandon,  the  bitterness  of  a  lifetime 
concentrated  in  a  moment.  And  he  dared  not  touch 
her,  dared  not;  could  not  offer  comfort  if  he  would. 
He  could  only  wait  for  the  storm  to  abate;  wait 
and  think,  and  think,  and  think ! 

At  last  it  passed,  as  everything  in  life  passes.  Of 
a  sudden,  so  swiftly  that  he  could  not  prevent,  could 
not  foresee,  a  face,  tragic  in  its  earnestness,  its  re- 
morse, lifted,  stared  into  his  face;  stared  relent- 
lessly, not  to  be  denied.  Simultaneously  a  voice 
spoke,  a  voice  not  to  be  halted. 

"Bob,"  it  said,  "I'm  to  blame,  I  myself.  I  made 
you — this  way;  I — by  going  away." 

Just  for  a  second  the  other  halted  wordless.  Then 
he  lied,  the  biggest  lie  of  his  life. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it  was  already  too  late  then."  He 
met  her  eyes  and  lied  fair  into  them.  "It  was  too 
late  long  before  then.  They,  the  surgeons,  said 
so." 

A  second  the  look  held. 

"You  swear  that  is  true,  Bob,  that  you're  not 
merely  saying  it  for  my  sake?"  asked  the  girl 
tensely.  "You  swear  it?" 

"I  swear  it,  Peg.  You  are  blameless,  abso- 
lutely." 

With  something  like  a  sob  the  tense  face  relaxed. 
The  eyes  dropped.  Conviction  had  come. 

But  the  man  did  not  wait.    He  could  not  wait. 

"I  said  that  was  not  all,"  he  rushed  on.     "You 


The  Trail  Divides  251 

remember  I  told  you  once  when  you  were  a  child 
that  you  were — big.  I  meant  it  then  and  I  mean  it 
now.  I've  never  heard  you  sing — yet ;  but  I  know. 
You'll  be  famous  some  day,  your  name  will  reach 
even  here;  and  I  am — nothing.  I  can't  even  offer 
you  a  decent  living  or  the  assurance  of  a  living  for 
years.  I'm  not  beaten  yet,  I'll  try  my  best;  but 
nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can  put  me  where  you 
are  now,  to-day.  This  is  reality,  Peg;  and  we're 
looking  at  realities  to-night.  Miracles  don't  hap- 
pen these  days — and  meanwhile  life  goes  on."  He 
halted.  Mechanically  he  clucked  to  the  horse.  "I 
might  say  more,  but  I  think  I've  said  enough,"  he 
completed  dully. 

It  was  getting  dusk  now,  not  darkness  but  dusk. 
In  the  air  there  was  a  trace  of  dampness,  of  con- 
densing dew.  Far  to  the  east,  just  above  the  level 
of  the  horizon,  mighty  in  comparative  size  with 
earthy  things,  appeared  the  red  face  of  the  summer 
moon ;  a  great  disk  against  the  darkened  sky. 

For  a  minute  neither  spoke.  Only  the  patter,  pat- 
ter, patter  of  the  horse's  feet  broke  the  stillness. 
Then  the  girl  stirred  in  her  place. 

"Don't  you  think  I  care  for  you,  Bob?"  she  asked 
steadily. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other.    "I  know  you  do." 

"Enough  to — ignore  everything  you've  said?" 

"Yes,"  again. 

"Why,  then " 


252  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Because  I  won't  let  you,"  swiftly.  "I'd  spoil 
your  life  and  hate  myself.  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  the  fact.  I'd  never  forget  it,  even  in  sleep; 
and  it  would  be — Hell." 

"And  if  you  don't  let  me?" 

"I'll  know  I've  done  right." 

"I  love  you,  Bob  McLeodl" 

Silence,  dead  silence. 

"I  say  I  love  you,  Bob  McLeod." 

Again  as  before  the  reins  in  the  man's  hands  went 
taut.  At  the  angle  of  his  big  Scotch  jaw  the 
muscles  locked.  That  was  all. 

"Bob  McLeod!"  The  girl  was  facing  him  now, 
both  hands  on  his  shoulders,  her  breath  on  his  cheek, 
her  eyes  staring  into  his  face.  "I  tell  you  I  love 
you,  in  spite  of  all  you  have  said,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing. I  love  you  enough  to  go  back  to  the  farm 
where  we  met  and  stay  there  all  my  life.  I  love  you 
enough  to  go  to  the  Hell  you  pictured — with  you." 
Her  hands  pressed  tighter,  her  cheek  came  closer 
until  it  touched  his  cheek,  her  voice  lowered  until  it 
was  almost  a  whisper.  "Can't  you  realise,  Bob? 
Won't  you?  Won't  you?" 

Once  again  in  that  tensely  interrupted  journey 
silence  fell  upon  them,  wrapped  them  in.  In  the  sky 
the  moon  had  risen;  a  great  oblong  ball,  sending 
their  shadows  wide  over  the  face  of  earth.  They 
were  nearing  the  tiny  town  now  and  in  the  distance, 
twinkling  at  intervals,  the  lights  from  the  houses 


The  Trail  Divides  253 

stretched  out  in  a  line  before  them.  The  end  was 
at  hand. 

"Bob!"  A  quarter  minute  had  passed  and  still 
the  man  had  not  spoken,  had  not  stirred.  "Bob," 
repeated.  "Aren't  you — human?"  The  voice  was 
choking  tense  now,  choking  vibrant.  "I  tell  you  for 
the  last  time  I  love  you,  that  nothing  matters  but 
you.  I'll  never  tell  you  this  again,  never  unless  you 
speak  to  me  now.  I'll  never  come  back  to  trouble 
you,  never  let  you  see  me  if  I  can  help."  Her  hands 
still  clung  to  his  arm,  but  her  face  was  withdrawn. 
"Do  you  want  this  to  be  the  end,  now,  forever, 
Bob?" 

Still  before  her  stared  the  man,  silent  as  though  no 
question  had  been  asked,  silent  as  the  night  sur- 
rounding. Ahead,  nearer  and  nearer,  drew  the 
lights.  Patter,  patter,  patter  in  its  old  unceasing 
music  sounded  the  hoofs  of  the  horse.  That  was 
all. 

It  was  the  crushing  straw,  the  snapping  of  the 
last  thread  that  bound  their  ways  together.  Of  a 
sudden  the  girl  drew  away,  sat  erect.  Her  hands 
went  palm  to  palm  in  her  lap,  tightened  so.  Her 
lips  opened  to  speak,  then  closed  again.  Silence 
anew  fell  upon  them;  silence  that  dragged  on  and 
on ;  that  lasted  until  the  lights  that  had  been  in  the 
distance  drew  very  near,  closed  intimate  all  about. 
When  at  last  they  drew  up  in  front  of  the  single 
hotel  the  man  made  a  motion  to  alight ;  but  ere  he 


254  The  Quest  Eternal 

could  move  the  girl  was  already  on  the  ground.  A 
second  longer  they  halted  so,  the  eyes  of  a  dozen 
curious  spectators  focussed  upon  them.  Then  five 
words  were  spoken,  and  five  only. 

"Good-bye,  Peg,"  said  the  man  gently. 

"Good-bye,"  echoed  a  voice  steadily. 

And  volumes  could  not  have  spoken  more. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  PAST 

AGAIN  over  the  broad  prairies  the  pendulum  of 
time  followed  its  monotonous  cycle.  Back  and 
forth  it  moved,  and  a  year  was  complete.  Back 
and  forth  it  repeated,  and  a  second  year  had 
gathered  into  the  past.  And  still  it  was  not  satisfied. 
Relentless,  inexorable,  it  moved  along  on  its  endless 
journey :  from  summer  to  autumn,  from  autumn  to 
winter,  from  winter  to  spring — until  a  third  cycle, 
a  third  year,  almost,  from  the  time  Peg  Stanton  had 
last  set  foot  thereon,  was  complete. 

For  the  Dakota  frontier  knew  Peg  Stanton  no 
more.  The  West  that  gave  her  birth  knew  her  no 
more.  As  the  arctic  migrants  respond  to  the  call 
of  the  south  land  that  draws  them  far,  far  away 
from  the  land  of  their  birth,  so  she  had  responded 
to  the  siren  voice  calling  from  the  distant  East.  Ere 
the  pendulum  of  time  had  swung  once  she  had 
heard  it  and  flown.  But,  unlike  the  migrants,  as 
yet  she  had  not  returned.  Even  when  it  had  swung 
the  second  time  she  had  not  returned ;  but  from  the 
land  which  she  had  now  made  her  own,  a  tiny  voice, 
small  indeed  as  yet,  but  growing  louder  steadily — 
the  insistent  voice  of  fame — was  telling  of  her  do- 


256  The  Quest  Eternal 

ings.  For  whatever  he  might  make  of  his  own  life, 
as  a  prophet  of  the  future  of  Margaret  Stanton, 
Bob  McLeod  was  a  seer  true.  Seemingly  a  miracle, 
a  possibility  too  vague  to  credit,  nevertheless  that 
which  he  had  predicted  had  come  to  pass.  In  the 
space  of  two  seasons  it  had  come  to  pass.  Out  of 
obscurity  absolute,  a  name,  a  wholly  unknown  name, 
was  coming  to  the  fore,  elbowing  other  old  estab- 
lished names  aside,  making  room  where  seemingly 
there  was  none.  In  the  face  of  ridicule,  of  sceptic- 
ism, of  jealousy  it  had  advanced;  dominant,  irre- 
sistible, by  the  sheer  power  of  genius  alone.  As  yet 
it  had  far  to  travel  before  it  reached  the  extreme 
front,  had  many  obstacles  to  surmount,  many  pit- 
falls to  avoid;  but  notwithstanding,  on  the  horizon 
of  names  that  were  big  it  had  appeared,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  land  were  upon  it;  watching  its  progress, 
speculating  upon  its  possibilities,  critical,  isolate,  but 
ever  watching.  And  that  name  the  country  at  large 
was  observing,  that  name  struggling  on  the  horizon, 
was  none  other  than  that  of  a  newly  caged  song 
bird:  Margaret  Stanton  now,  Peg  Stanton  of 
old! 

This  the  first  shimmer  of  the  star  at  the  swinging 
of  the  prairie  pendulum  the  second  time.  Then 
came  the  winter  cycle;  and  among  other  twinkling 
lights  the  beam  found  itself,  asserted  itself.  No 
longer  did  the  watchers  question  from  whence  the 
new  name  had  come.  It  had  arrived,  had  become  a 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  257 

part  of  things  as  they  were ;  and  instead  they  went: 
to  hear  and  to  see.  Out  of  habit  some,  out  of  curi- 
osity others,  they  went — and  the  result  was  the 
same.  As  that  first  day  in  June  three  years  before, 
her  day,  Peg  Stanton  had  conquered  she  conquered 
now.  Because  unfathomable  nature  had  intended! 
her  to  conquer,  she  conquered.  The  divine  spark 
that  is  genius  was  hers;  and,  indomitable,  she 
followed  its  lead.  That  was  the  solution 
all  in  all,  simple  as  a  twice-told  tale  when  spoken; 
but  it  was  enough.  Whether  the  evolution  had 
taken  place  in  a  month  or  in  a  decade  it  had  come 
to  pass.  In  the  world  of  music  Peg  Stanton  had 
arrived. 

All  through  that  winter,  the  first  winter  of  her 
real  success,  she  had  stayed  East,  where  her  star  had- 
risen.  Then  as  spring  drew  on,  with  the  appear- 
ance of  the  first  suggestion  of  green,  there  came  ar 
rumour  that  she  too  was  coming  back,  was  return- 
ing to  the  prairie  country  likewise.  At  first  it  was; 
but  a  rumour  and  unauthenticated.  Ridiculed  if' 
untrue,  ridiculed  more  if  true — for  the  prophet  is> 
ever  without  honour  in  his  own  home — it  found  its 
way  into  the  news  columns  of  the  local  papers  at  a 
time  when  news  was  scarce.  This  the  first  sugges- 
tion :  a  stray  fragment  of  copy  clutched  at  to  fill  a 
paragraph;  then,  swift  following,  came  certainty. 
From  the  manager  of  the  Opera  House  at  Sioux- 
Ridge  itself  came  assurance ;  an  announcement  posl 


258  The  Quest  Eternal 

tive,  studiously  brief,  artfully  suggestive,  and  a  date 
of  appearance.  Last  of  all  ere  the  snow  vanished 
from  the  north  slopes  of  the  rolling  prairie,  ere  the 
migrants  began  their  northward  flight,  of  a  sudden 
every  billboard  in  the  prairie  metropolis  took  on  a 
fresh  dress.  And  upon  that  space,  against  a  back- 
ground of  white,  in  gigantic  letters  of  black,  stared 
forth  a  single  name;  a  new  name,  yet  one  familiar 
withal  as  that  of  the  city  itself :  the  name  of  the  new 
prima  donna  who  had  come  out  of  the  West — Mar- 
garet Stanton. 

Upon  that  particular  day  in  early  spring  whose 
importance  was  thus  emphasised,  a  man  of  three  and 
twenty,  with  a  face  that  seemed  far  older,  emerged 
from  the  basement  exit  of  the  medical  building  at 
the  state  university  campus  in  the  edge  of  Sioux 
Ridge  and  went  limping  down  the  cindered  path 
that  led  to  the  street.  He  was  dressed  in  a  work- 
ing suit  of  brown  corduroys  and  a  cap  of  the  same 
.colour.  The  hour  was  five  P.M.,  the  clock  on  the 
tower  had  just  struck,  and  he  was  in  a  hurry;  so 
much  of  a  hurry  that  the  dust  of  the  laboratory  in 
which  he  had  been  working  and  from  which  the 
stroke  of  the  clock  had  given  release  was  still  upon 
him. 

At  the  main  exit  of  the  building  a  swarm  of  other 
students,  likewise  released  for  the  day,  were  pour- 
ing forth ;  in  pairs,  in  bevies,  blocking  the  walk  and 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  259 

spreading  out  upon  the  frost-bound  sod  beyond. 

But,  oblivious,  the  man  passed  them  by.  Many 
were  his  classmates,  men  with  whom  he  had  worked 
for  the  past  three  years ;  yet,  except  for  an  occasional 
nod,  he  gave  no  indication  of  the  fact.  It  was  the 
normal  attitude  with  him,  his  customary  isolation; 
and  no  one  noticed  the  lack  of  the  conventional  this 
day.  Long  ago  his  mates  had  become  accustomed 
to  seeing  him  solitary;  and  in  consequence,  the  fact 
that  when  on  reaching  the  street  he  took  the  centre 
of  the  open  thoroughfare  instead  of  mingling  with 
the  others  on  the  congested  walk,  elicited  no  sur- 
prise. 

Down  the  street  he  went,  his  long  arms  dangling 
at  his  side,  his  body  swaying  jerkily  in  rhythm  with 
the  step  of  his  crippled  foot.  Though  the  day  was 
clear  and  far  from  cold,  in  fact  almost  mild,  he 
coughed  at  intervals;  chronically,  with  an  effort; 
and  each  time  as  he  did  so  there  appeared  upon  his 
thin  cheeks  a  distinct  trace  of  red. 

Ere  the  limit  of  the  campus  was  complete  the  other 
students  were  well  past  and  he  returned  to  the  walk. 
But  still  he  hurried  on.  The  university  was  a  full 
mile  from  the  city  proper;  and  at  the  loop,  a  block 
beyond,  he  caught  a  car.  He  had  to  run  to  catch  it, 
and  as,  breathless  from  the  effort,  he  halted  a  bit 
on  the  rear  platfrom  he  coughed  again;  and  in 
sympathy,  deeper  than  before,  burned  the  patches 
of  scarlet  on  his  cheeks. 


26  o  The  Quest  Eternal 

On  the  way  downtown  he  sat  at  a  window  staring 
steadily  out,  but  observing  nothing.  The  city  had 
grown  remarkably  in  the  last  decade ;  grown  as  only 
Western  cities  grow ;  but  so  far  as  he  was  conscious 
that  day  it  might  have  been  an  open  prairie.  Block 
after  block  that  they  were  passing,  filled  close  with 
residences,  in  the  time  of  his  father  was  pasturage 
for  the  citizens'  cows.  In  the  business  section  which 
they  were  approaching  the  old-time  buildings  of  one 
and  two  stories  had  been  replaced  by  modern  blocks 
of  multiple  floors;  yet  of  that  metamorphosis  like- 
wise he  was  unconscious.  Not  until  the  centre  of 
the  two  was  reached,  the  old-time  square  where  the 
hacks  of  a  generation  past  foregathered — a  busy 
crossing  now  with  steady  din  of  traffic — did  he 
arouse.  Then  as  the  car  stopped  and  rapidly  emp- 
tied, he  too  arose  and  elbowed  his  way  to  the  street. 

As  he  did  so,  above  his  head,  sole  landmark  of  the 
former  regime,  towered  the  old  office  building  of 
six  floors,  flanked  now  by  taller  neighbours;  and 
toward  it  he  made  his  way.  Inside  the  entrance, 
though  the  purr  of  the  elevator  sounded  in  descent, 
he  did  not  wait  to  ride  but  went  stumping  up  the 
stairway  to  the  second  floor;  and,  breathing  hard 
from  the  climb,  entered  an  office  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor:  an  office  upon  whose  door  appeared,  in 
contrast  to  the  multiplicity  of  its  companions,  a 
single  name — Dr.  Emil  Schoup. 

Following  there  was  a  wait.    The  doctor  was  en- 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  261 

gaged,  so  he  was  informed  by  the  maid  in  diminu- 
tive cap  and  apron  who  took  his  name  and  errand, 
and  from  the  depths  of  a  big  leather  seat  he  sat 
staring  about  him.  Up  to  that  moment  he  had 
thought  of  his  errand  alone;  now  as  he  sat  there, 
of  a  sudden  came  recollection  of  other  things. 
Though  he  had  lived  three  years  in  the  city,  this 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  within  this  par- 
ticular building.  From  youthful  recollection,  oft 
refreshed,  he  well  knew  its  significance  in  connec- 
tion with  his  father's  history;  yet,  Scotch  practical, 
the  suggestion  had  heretofore  borne  no  fruit.  Its 
connection  was  not  of  the  present  but  of  the  past; 
and  the  past  was  a  generation  dead.  But  now, 
waiting  there  at  the  very  scene,  inevitably  memory 
returned.  Bit  by  bit  the  history  of  the  place  in- 
truded on  his  consciousness.  Now  that  the  thought 
occurred  to  him  he  knew  it  for  what  it  was,  iden- 
tified it  from  near  forgotten  description. 

For  it  was  the  old,  old  office  of  McLeod  and  Stone 
in  which  he  sat;  a  doctor's  office  for  a  generation 
now  and  more.  In  detail  and  in  furnishings  it  had 
been  changed ;  but  fundamentally  it  was  unaltered. 
For  years  Dr.  Schoup,  his  big  German  professor 
of  pathology,  had  been  its  occupant;  but  now  that 
recollection  had  come  the  observer  knew  who  had 
been  his  predecessor.  Sidney  Stone  it  was  who  had 
worked  there  before.  "Sidney  Stone,  Surgeon"  was 
the  preceding  name  which  had  stared  from  the  big 


262  The  Quest  Eternal 

front  windows  out  on  the  avenue.  Precisely  as  it 
had  been  left  (after  something  that  was  merely  a 
vague  recollection  to  the  townspeople  now  had 
happened)  the  newcomer  had  acquired  possession. 
This  the  waiting  man  recalled;  and  the  details  of 
that  something  which  had  happened  became  of  a 
sudden  very  real  and  very  vital. 

Then  as  suddenly,  under  the  influence  of  newly 
aroused  recollection,  memory  slipped  back  a  decade, 
two,  and  another  impression,  more  insistent,  took 
its  place.  As  though  the  impossible  were  real  and 
he  were  himself  present,  fancy  reproduced  that  first 
tragic  scene  which  by  heritage  had  left  such  a  stamp 
on  his  own  life.  As  Andrew  McLeod  had  seen  it, 
and  lived  it,  and  told  thereof,  fancy  counterfeited 
that  long- forgotten  midsummer  afternoon.  Before 
him  the  tidy  maid  in  waiting  metamorphosed,  be- 
came a  middle-aged  woman  with  a  restless  step  and 
a  tense  drawn  face.  From  nowhere  came  into  being 
a  man — her  husband;  likewise  middle-aged,  simi- 
larly nervous,  tense.  Back  and  forth  the  length  of 
the  tiny  room,  from  the  door  to  the  window,  they 
vibrated ;  too  anxious  to  be  still,  silent  save  for  the 
patter  of  their  footsteps. 

From  fancy  the  waiting  man  pictured  it  all,  felt 
it  all,  lived  it  all.  It  was  not  spring  but  summer 
now;  sultry,  oppressive.  The  window  was  open; 
but  barely  a  sound  came  from  the  deserted  street. 
On  the  face  of  the  woman  perspiration  flowed  in 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  26 3 

tiny  coursing  lines  and  the  forehead  of  the  man  her 
companion  was  dotted  with  beads. 

This  the  scene  at  first,  for  minutes  or  seconds  per- 
haps. This  the  first  impression.  Then,  swiftly 
following,  vitally  real,  came  its  successor.  For  of 
a  sudden  the  place  that  had  been  silent  was  silent  no 
longer.  Just  beyond  that  thin  partition  which 
separated  the  room  adjoining  something  was  hap- 
pening :  something  that  from  his  own  experience  of 
the  past  three  years  memory  could  reproduce  true. 
In  it  there  was  the  sound  of  breathing,  not  normal 
but  abnormal;  deep,  sibilant,  penetrating.  As 
clearly  as  though  the  thing  were  real  the  dreamer 
heard  it,  recognised  its  meaning.  A  patient  was 
taking  an  anaesthetic  and  consciousness  was  fading. 
Again  in  visionary  swiftness,  seconds,  minutes, 
passed.  Deeper  and  deeper  grew  the  breathing,, 
more  stertorous.  The  two  middle-aged  people  had 
halted  in  their  tramp.  They  too  had  heard,  under- 
stood ;  and,  motionless,  stood  waiting,  listening.  As 
yet  all  was  well.  Deep  and  regular  came  the 
breaths ;  quicker  and  quicker.  The  one  on  the  table 
was  unconscious  now,  the  moment  to  begin  the  op- 
eration had  all  but  arrived.  Another  minute,  a. 
half  minute,  a  quarter  now — ah  1 

Fanciful  as  it  all  was  of  a  sudden  the  man  .felt 
every  nerve  in  his  body  go  tense,  every  muscle  in- 
stinctively tighten.  Despite  his  will  his  own  heart 
beat  quick  and  his  own  hands  became  moist.  For 


264  The  Quest  Eternal 

all  at  once  the  expected  and  the  unexpected  had 
happened.  All  at  once  the  sounds  from  the  room 
adjoining  had  ceased  and  the  room  was  still;  still 
with  a  sinister  silence;  still  with  the  stillness  of 
death ;  silent  as  though  the  operating  room  so  near 
were  a  void.  A  space  the  silence  lasted — a  Hell 
of  suspense;  then  against  its  background  came  a 
new  sound,  at  first  low,  suppressed,  then  hurried, 
open,  an  abandon,  a  fever  of  activity.  Feet  shuffled, 
instruments  clicked — one  fell  clattering  to  the  floor 
— voices  spoke,  jerkily,  tensely;  a  curse,  biting, 
blazing,  horrible  arose  and  subsided;  exploded 
again  1 

Out  in  the  tiny  waiting  room  Robert  McLeod 
lived  it  all.  As  his  father  had  lived  it  he  lived  it. 
As  his  father  had  felt  the  curse  of  the  place  draw- 
ing tight  about  him  he  felt  it  now.  With  an  effort 
he  had  aroused,  had  banished  fancy ;  but  the  impres- 
sion of  disaster,  of  defeat,  would  not  down.  The 
doctor  was  still  engaged.  Through  the  partition 
the  listener  could  hear  the  steady  drone  of  voices. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  but  wait — and  thought  was 
sinsistent. 

Ceaselessly  busy,  he  had  long  battled  against 
thought;  but  now  he  could  not  prevent  its  coming. 
His  very  errand  that  day  stood  in  the  way.  The 
atmosphere  of  this  place,  where,  distinct,  irrevoc- 
able, his  father  had  seen  the  hand  of  fate  writing 
on  the  wall,  added  its  quota.  Facts,  suggestions, 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  265 

memories  long  forgotten,  came  tumbling  in  upon 
him.  The  stories  he  had  been  told  of  his  mother's 
father  and  of  his  father's  father  sprang  to  memory, 
passed  and  repassed  with  kaleidoscopic  swiftness. 
With  a  vividness  he  had  never  before  experienced, 
he  realised  their  ambitions  and  hopes.  With  a 
distinctness  never  before  vouchsafed  he  saw  them 
crushed  to  earth  one  by  one  under  the  slow  moving 
wheel  of  circumstance  that  was  fate. 

Heretofore  he  had  never  thought  of  them  as  he 
had  thought  of  himself,  had  never  compared  their 
lives  with  his  life.  Now  to  his  quickened  brain  the 
comparison  was  inevitable.  More  than  this  it  was 
parallel.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  shirking  the 
real — and  now  that  light  had  come  it  was  the  truth 
that  faced  him.  Theorise  as  he  might  the  fact  re- 
mained. These  players  of  the  dead  past,  his  ances- 
tors, were  very,  very  like  him.  His  ambitions  had 
been  their  ambitions,  his  desires  their  desires,  the 
effort  he  had  made,  was  making  still,  but  paralleled 
their  effort  of  long  before.  Patent  as  was  the  fact 
it  had  never  before  occurred  to  him.  Now  it  drove 
home  with  belated  force.  In  their  day  his  grand- 
fathers had  met  life  as  they  found  it,  met  it  fear- 
lessly. The  game  life  dictated,  they  had  played 
with  all  their  might,  played  to  the  limit,  to  the  bit- 
ter end.  And  that  end  was  defeat.  Others  might 
soften  the  word,  might  juggle  with  it;  but  with  him- 
self to  do  so  were  puerile.  He  was  facing  facts  that 


266  The  Quest  Eternal 

late  afternoon  as  he  sat  there  waiting  and  it  was 
this  fact  that  incontrovertibly  stared  him  back. 

Then  followed  the  next  generation;  and  thicker 
than  before  came  the  evidence  tumbling  in  upon 
him.  He  pictured  his  father  at  his  own  age,  as 
others  had  pictured  him ;  at  the  time  his  name  first 
appeared  upon  the  office  windows.  What  ambi- 
tion that  he  himself  had  cherished  had  his  father 
not  felt  before  him?  What  imperative  need  "to 
do"  had  not  lived  before?  The  testimony  was  over- 
whelmingly convincing.  There  was  none,  nor  a 
shadow  of  one.  Save  in  minor  detail,  as  with  the 
lives  of  his  grandfathers,  the  careers  of  his  father 
and  of  himself  were  parallel.  The  incidents,  the 
difficulties  that  crowded  their  respective  ways  were 
diverse;  but  the  dominant  motive  was  unchanged. 
And  his  father  had  failed.  Here  in  this  office  fate 
had  spoken  and  the  thing  was  done.  Right  or 
wrong,  merited  or  unmerited  the  thing  was  done. 
Again  on  its  path  the  slow  moving  wheel  of  cir- 
cumstance, that  was  fate,  had  done  its  work.  Be- 
neath it  his  father  had  gone  down ;  and  he  was  his 
father's  son! 

These  the  thoughts  that  went  coursing  through 
his  brain  as  he  sat  there  waiting.  Time  was  passing 
and  ere  this  the  town  clock  had  struck  the  half  hour. 
Promptly  at  the  stroke,  the  maid  in  waiting  had 
put  on  hat  and  coat  and  without  a  word  had  dis- 
appeared. No  one  else  had  come  and  he  was  alone. 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  267 

But  still  through  the  partition  came  the  drone  of 
voices,  muffled,  unintelligible,  as  from  a  dis- 
tance. 

Restlessly  the  man  arose  and  started  to  walk  back 
and  forth.  As  he  did  so  a  fit  of  coughing  seized 
him,  battled  with  him,  left  him  momentarily  weak, 
and  he  resumed  his  place.  But,  relentless,  his  brain 
worked  on  and  on. 

And  what  was  the  meaning  of  it  all,  the  hidden 
lesson  ?  There  must  be  one  somewhere,  there  must. 
Nothing  was  destroyed  in  this  life,  not  even  the 
lust  to  do — that  men  called  ambition.  It  might  be 
halted  on  its  way,  circumstances  could  do  that ;  but 
destroyed,  wiped  out  as  though  it  had  never  been — 
that  was  unthinkable.  It  was  opposed  to  all  the 
laws  of  nature.  And  yet  for  two  generations  it  had 
been  defeated.  Back  of  that  he  had  no  record;  but 
as  nothing  can  be  destroyed,  nothing  can  be  pro- 
duced of  itself.  It  must  have  existed  previously, 
must  have,  back,  back — to  where  ?  His  brain  stag- 
gered at  the  thought,  as  it  had  staggered  on  a  clear 
prairie  night  when  he  had  gazed  up  into  the  infinite 
and  speculated  upon  what  lay  beyond.  No  light 
could  come  from  that  distant  past,  to  search  for  it 
was  hopeless ;  but  nevertheless  it  must  have  existed. 
If  so,  and  it  must  be  so,  why  had  it  not  borne  fruit 
before?  Why?  He  was  facing  a  blank  wall,  a 
surface  impenetrable,  for  it  was  a  wall  of  the  dead. 
He  must  retrace  his  steps,  go  the  other  way.  In 


268  The  Quest  Eternal 

that  direction  possibly  there  was  light;  for  thither 
there  was  life. 

And  in  the  future,  what?  He  himself  was  the 
future,  as  he  was  the  present;  he,  Robert  McLeod. 
There  was  no  avoiding  the  fact,  no  contesting  it. 
Down  from  an  unknown  past,  thwarted,  retarded, 
but  never  completely  extinguished,  the  spark  had 
come  until  it  rested  with  him.  Often  as  he  had 
thought  of  his  future,  often  as  he  had  dreamed  of 
it,  never  until  this  moment  had  that  particular  phase 
appeared  to  him.  Perhaps  it  was  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place  that  brought  it  home  now,  perhaps  it 
was — other  things;  but  the  fact  remained.  Com- 
ing, second  by  second,  the  responsibility  it  carried 
intensified,  pressed  intimately  insistent.  Empha- 
sising, driving  it  home,  new  impressions,  new  evi- 
dence, came  rushing  in — the  sacrifice  of  his  grand- 
parents when,  crippled  and  beaten,  they  realised  the 
consummation  was  not  for  them;  the  ambition, 
the  last  ray  of  hope,  that  shone  for  his  father  when 
fate  had  spoken  and  he  had  bowed  to  the  inevitable. 
The  hands  of  the  man  in  waiting  locked  at  the 
thought.  He  breathed  fast  as  though  he  had  been 
running.  This  was  the  thing  they,  his  ancestors, 
had  bequeathed  to  him;  sole  heritage  of  their  ef- 
fort, thing  dearer  to  them  than  life.  This  the  re- 
sponsibility he  had  inherited  and  could  not  escape. 
And  how  had  he  met  the  trust,  the  obligation? 
What  of  the  future,  its  future?  The  tense  hands 


In  the  Shadow  of  Past  269 

went  lax.  The  immediate  present,  to-day — now — 
came  thundering  in  as  an  answer.  Ghastly,  hor- 
rible, his  present  errand  intruded.  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  face  and  found  it  wet.  Instinctively 
he  coughed;  a  cough  against  which  he  resisted 
fiercely,  rebelliously,  but  could  not  prevent.  Was 
it  possible  that  after  all,  after  the  sacrifice  of  those 
who  had  gone  before,  after  his  effort,  his  own  best, 
that  this  something  he  could  not  anticipate,  could 
not  avoid  would  step  in  and  prevent  ?  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  after  all  the  germ  of  success  which  the 
others  had  thought  eternal,  inevitable  of  fulfilment 
some  time,  was  to  perish,  and  with  him  ?  Was  this 
unthinkable  thing  to  be  and  he,  Bob  McLeod,  the 
one  with  whom  it  was  to  end,  the  one  to  admit  be- 
fore all  the  world  defeat  absolute? 

At  last  the  end  had  come,  the  final  thought,  the 
hidden  message  for  which  he  had  searched.  With 
its  coming  his  brain  stood  still.  It  was  chaos  and 
demanded  time;  time  to  convince,  to  adjust  if  ad- 
justment were  necessary.  Sitting  there  in  the  tiny 
office  the  man  was  oblivious  of  the  passing  moments 
now,  all  but  oblivious  of  his  errand.  Mechanically 
he  waited;  his  head  tilted  back  wearily  against  the 
padded  seat,  his  great  hands  loose  in  his  lap. 

Just  how  long  he  remained  so  he  could  not  have 
told,  he  did  not  care.  A  sort  of  dull  lethargy  was 
upon  him;  a  lethargy  which  he  made  no  effort  to 
dispel.  It  was  still  upon  him  when  at  last,  from  the 


270  The  Quest  Eternal 

inner  room,  there  mingled  with  the  drone  of  voices 
a  new  sound;  the  shifting  of  chairs  and  the  shuffle 
of  feet.  It  was  still  upon  him  when,  a  moment 
later,  the  door  of  the  private  office  swung  open  and 
one  man  alone  emerged.  Mechanically,  however, 
he  arose.  Instinctively  again  he  coughed;  and  in  a 
flash  the  present  and  memory  of  his  appointment 
returned.  Dr.  Schoup,  the  big  German,  was  beck- 
oning to  him,  and  even  at  this  moment  the  visitor 
fancied  there  was  a  peculiar  look  in  his  eyes.  Obe- 
dient, however,  he  answered  the  nod,  came  limping 
forward,  passed  the  entrance;  and,  just  within  the 
doorway,  stood  face  to  face  with — Sam  Treadway. 
Simultaneously  to  his  ears  there  came  the  sound  of 
a  voice  speaking:  the  voice  of  Dr.  Schoup  with  its 
familiar  German  accent. 

"Come  in  please,  Mr.  McLeod,"  it  introduced 
simply.    "We  have  been  speaking  of  you." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  DEAD  WALL  OF  THE  INEVITABLE 

MINUTES  had  passed.  In  the  outer  office,  in  the 
same  seat  which  Bob  McLeod  had  occupied,  sat 
Sam  Treadway;  waiting  as  the  other  had  waited 
before  him.  He  had  not  been  requested  to  leave 
the  inner  room,  yet  he  had  left  after  the  first 
greeting,  without  explanation  or  apology,  bluntly 
as  he  did  everything.  Why  he  had  been  there  at 
all,  why  particularly  at  this  time,  he  did 
not  disclose;  and  the  other  had  not  asked.  As 
though  a  meeting  were  of  weekly  occurrence,  in- 
stead of  three  years  having  elapsed  since  they  were 
together,  they  had  shaken  hands.  And  that  was 
all;  no  conventional  commonplace,  no  polite  affecta- 
tion. He  did  not  even  say  he  would  wait  outside; 
yet  as  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Bob  McLeod 
knew  to  a  certainty  that  he  would  do  so.  Likewise 
that  it  was  not  a  mere  chance  which  had  prompted 
his  coming — he  also  knew.  A  definite  purpose  had 
actuated  this  infrequent  journey  from  the  little 
frontier  town;  and  as  certainly  as  though  he  had 
been  told  Bob  McLeod  knew  the  instant  the  big 
doctor's  hand  closed  upon  his  own  that  he  himself 
figured  therein.  What  that  purpose  was  he  could 
but  speculate  yet ;  but  that  eventually  it  would  come 


272  The  Quest  Eternal 

to  light,  that  as  inevitable  as  time  it  would  be  car- 
ried out,  he  knew.  And  knowing,  impassive  now  as 
the  big  doctor  himself,  as  impenetrably  taciturn,  he 
awaited  the  revelation. 

For  with  the  closing  of  that  inner  door  behind 
him,  with  the  uncertainty  of  the  disclosure  the  next 
few  minutes  were  to  bring,  Bob  McLeod  had  be- 
come a  different  man.  As  suddenly  as  the  change 
from  sleep  to  wakefulness,  he  had  altered,  as  com- 
pletely. About  him  there  was  no  trace  of  lethargy 
now  nor  of  nervous  restlessness.  Self-contained,  on 
the  surface  cool  almost  to  indifference,  he  took  the 
seat  Dr.  Schoup  had  offered.  Scotch  passive,  Scotch 
patient,  he  waited  for  the  older  man  to  speak. 

And  for  a  moment  likewise  Schoup  had  been 
silent,  premonitorily  silent.  He  was  a  great  shaggy- 
haired  German  with  a  blonde  moustache  and  near- 
sighted blue  eyes  that  gazed  out  at  the  world 
through  horn-rimmed  spectacles.  Abstractedly  now, 
with  an  inspection  that  was  almost  childlike  in  its 
candour  and  directness,  he  sat  looking  at  the  man 
opposite.  Then  at  last,  the  unconscious  observation 
complete,  he  spoke;  and,  in  contrast  to  his  bulk, 
his  voice  was  low  and  gentle  almost  as  a  woman's. 

"It's  getting  late  and  besides  I've  kept  you  waiting 
quite  a  while  already,"  he  began,  "so  I  won't  take 
up  any  more  of  your  time  than  is  necessary.  You've 
come,  I  take  it,  to  get  my  microscopical  report,  and 
an  opinion." 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable   273 

"Yes,  sir,"  laconically.  "You  told  me  the  time  I 
called  before  to  return  to-day." 

"I  remember.  I've  made  an  examination  and 
have  the  slides  prepared.  You  can  take  them  and 
see  for  yourself  if  you  wish."  He  halted,  leaning 
farther  forward  in  near-sighted  concentration. 
"But  before  I  make  a  report  I'd  like  to  ask  you  a 
few  questions.  When  you  called  before  I — 
thought  your  face  was  familiar,  but  I  didn't  know 
you  were  in  the  school.  Now  that  they've  put  on  a 
quiz-master  and  I  do  nothing  but  lecture  I  don't  get 
a  chance  to  know  you  boys  the  way  I'd  like.  But 
since  your  first  visit  I've  recalled  seeing  you  in  the 
lecture  room;  and  Dr.  Treadway,  who  dropped  in 
this  afternoon,  told  me  considerable  more.  He's 
a  good  deal  interested  in  you,  an  old  friend,  he 
says."  The  speaker  halted  a  trifle  uncertainly. 
"You  won't  mind  if  I  seem  a  bit  inquisitive  and 
personal  in  what  I'm  going  to  ask,  will  you?  I'm 
a  good  deal  older  than  you;  and  more  interested, 
perhaps,  than  you  think." 

In  his  place  Bob  McLeod  returned  the  other's 
direct  look,  fair  into  the  eyes  behind  the  big- 
rimmed  spectacles. 

"No,  I  won't  mind,"  he  said.  "You  may  ask 
whatever  you  wish." 

Schoup  settled  back  in  his  seat.  His  glance  went 
to  the  wall  opposite;  a  surface  that  to  him  at  that 
distance  must  have  been  a  blank. 


274  The  Quest  Eternal 

"You're  a  Junior,  are  you  not,  Mr.  McLeod?"  he 
asked  after  a  moment. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"The  session  is  over.  You  must  be  taking  the 
special  course  in  the  biological  laboratory." 

"I'm  taking  care  of  the  laboratory  itself  and  get- 
ting as  much  out  of  the  course  as  I  can.  I've  earned 
my  tuition  the  last  two  years  by  doing  janitor  work 
there." 

"And  during  vacation " 

"I've  worked  on  a  farm  just  out  of  town." 

The  blue  eyes  clung  absently  to  the  wall,  the  wall 
they  could  not  see. 

"And  before  you  started  here  to  school  you'd 
lived  in  the  country  always." 

"Yes,  sir.    I  was  born  on  a  farm." 

"You  never  had  any  trouble  with  the— cough 
while  you  were  there?" 

"No." 

"Nor  the  first  year  you  were  here  in  the  univer- 
sity?" 

"Only  a  little.     I  didn't  think  anything  about  it." 

"And  last  year " 

"I  was  bothered  in  the  winter.  During  the  sum- 
mer it  passed  away." 

For  the  first  time  the  questions  halted.  The  blue 
eyes  left  the  wall,  focussed  themselves  on  the 
other's  face. 

"And  this  year,"  directly. 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable  275 

"This  year  it's  been  worse  immeasurably."  A 
pause.  uSo  much  so  that  I  couldn't  ignore  it  any 
longer." 

The  big  shaggy  head  nodded  comprehension;  but 
the  inspection  did  not  shift. 

"I  warned  you  that  I  might  be  inquisitive  and  per- 
sonal, Mr.  McLeod,"  he  said  gently.  "I'm  going 
to  be  so  now.  You  were  born  in  the  country  you 
say,  raised  there.  The  open  air  life  is  your  natural 
life.  You've  proven  it  yourself.  You  were  healthy 
there  and  here  you  are  unhealthy."  The  voice 
lowered,  became  intimate,  slow.  "We  have  but  one 
life  to  live,  any  of  us.  Why  did  you  exchange  that 
life,  which  was  natural  for  you,  for  this  artificial 
one?  Tell  me  why,  please?" 

A  moment,  a  long  moment,  the  listener  was  silent; 
for  so  long  that  his  companion  thought  he  would 
not  answer.  Then,  just  perceptibly,  he  stirred  in 
his  seat. 

"I  supposed  the  reason  was  obvious,"  he  said. 

"Obvious?  I'm  serious.  I  don't  know,  Mr. 
McLeod." 

Still  an  instant  the  questioned  waited;  then  sud- 
denly he  straightened.  His  great  hands  locked  on 
the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"Unless  the  reason  is  obvious  it's  hard  to  explain, 
professor,"  he  said.  "It's  difficult  to  tell  in  words 
why  a  seed  put  into  the  ground  sends  up  a  shoot 
toward  the  surface.  It  would  be  easier  for  it  to  re- 


276  The  Quest  Eternal 

main  passive  where  it  is  planted.  It's  difficult  to 
explain  why  man,  placed  originally  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  as  we're  told,  didn't  remain  there  always. 
It  would  have  been  immeasurably  less  effort  to  have 
done  so."  The  voice  spoke  quicker  and  more 
quickly.  The  locked  fingers  grew  white.  "It's  be- 
cause, I  think,  I  was  as  nature  makes  everything 
that  she  gives  life — hopelessly  restless.  The  an- 
swer you  ask  is  the  answer  to  life  universal.  It's 
the  reason  that  sends  the  little  creeks  flowing 
toward  the  larger  waters;  the  motive  that  brings 
the  plant  up  toward  the  sun ;  the  instinct  that  urges 
mankind  perpetually  toward  a  something  that  seems 
imperative,  just  beyond.  It  was  the  legacy  that 
came  down  to  me  from  no  one  knows  how  many 
generations  of  ancestors;  that  unless  the  chain  of 
heredity  ends  with  me  will  keep  on  going  to  the 
end  of  time.  It's  the  one  thing  perpetual,  ubiqui- 
tous, throughout  the  universe  where  there's  life.  It 
was  the  instinct  of  the  eternal  quest."  The  voice 
halted.  The  locked  fingers  loosened.  Involun- 
tarily the  speaker  coughed;  laboriously  rackingly, 
until  his  whole  body  shook.  Then,  suddenly  as  the 
transformation  had  come,  he  lapsed  back  into  the 
passivity  from  which  he  had  been  unexpectedly 
aroused — an  impassivity  from  which  nothing  that 
would  follow  could  stir  him  again.  "I  trust  I've 
answered  your  question,  professor,"  he  said. 
Through  it  all  the  big  German  had  not  stirred  in 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable  277 

his  place.  Even  after  the  voice  had  ceased  and  the 
room  was  silent  he  still  sat  so;  in  an  abstraction 
that  took  no  thought  of  time.  Not  moments  but 
minutes  passed  so;  then,  interrupting  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  laboriously  as  before,  McLeod  coughed. 

It  was  the  awakening,  and  the  doctor  straight- 
ened ;  but  during  that  interim,  short  as  it  was,  a  new 
relationship,  a  new  intimacy  of  understanding  had 
been  born. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you've  answered  my  question — 
and  suggested  another.  "Every  human  being  who 
feels  the  necessity  of  doing,  as  you  felt  it,  has  some 
definite  object  in  view.  He  must  have.  It's  na- 
ture's law.  Just  what,  please,  was  your  ambition, 
Mr.  McLeod,  your  particular  'eternal  quest'  ?" 

Through  half-closed  lids  the  visitor  inspected  his 
host,  as  he  himself  had  been  inspected. 

"To  give  a  concrete  example,"  he  said  evenly.  "I 
would  name — yourself." 

The  big  doctor  flushed,  almost  like  a  boy. 

"I  didn't  intend  that,  McLeod,"  he  hesitated, 
"really » 

"I  know  you  didn't;  but  it's  true,  nevertheless." 
The  voice  was  monotonous,  without  a  trace  of  the 
suppressed  fire  it  had  held  a  bit  before.  "You  ex- 
emplify the  type.  You've  succeeded  in  your  line, 
done  things.  You've  proved,  for  instance,  what  be- 
fore was  only  a  theory,  of  a  certain  infection.  A 
serum  is  named  after  you.  You  lecture  anywhere, 


278  The  Quest  Eternal 

and  other  men,  big  men  too,  listen — and  believe 
what  you  say.  An  article  you  write  is  standard  in 
any  medical  journal  in  the  world.  You  point  a 
course  and  doctors  everywhere  follow  your  finger. 
They  do  it  because  you're  bigger  than  they  are — 
and  they  know  you're  bigger.  You  don't  have  to 
prove  your  leadership,  you've  done  so  already ;  and 
they  accept  without  question.  I  repeat  you  yourself 
are  the  answer,  professor." 

The  flush  had  left  the  other's  face  now,  leaving  it 
almost  pale.  The  great  broad  shoulders  had 
drooped,  narrowed.  Only  the  blue  eyes  stared  out 
through  the  big  spectacles  steady  and  candid  as  be- 
fore. 

"And  if  I  am,"  he  said  low,  "do  you  think,  Mr. 
McLeod,  I've  found  the  something  imperative  I'm 
searching  for,  my  'eternal  quest'?  Do  you  fancy 
if  you  were  in  my  place  you'd  be  any  nearer  to  the 
attainment  of  yours,  any  better  satisfied?" 

Again  the  room  became  silent;  so  silent  that  they 
could  hear  the  muffled  purr  of  the  elevator  in  the 
corridor  without,  the  thud  of  a  street-car  gong  a 
block  away.  There  had  been  no  answer  to  the 
query  and  instinctively  Schoup  leaned  forward,  in- 
sistently. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  McLeod,"  he  repeated,  "do  you 
fancy  if  you'd  gotten  where  you  say  I  am,  you'd  be 
any  happier,  any  nearer  the  end  of  the  quest  than 
you  are  now?" 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable  279 

It  was  a  question  and  still  it  was  not  a  question. 
Watching,  listening,  intensely  observant,  Bob 
McLeod  knew  it  was  so,  knew  it  for  what  it  was. 
For  it  was  a  page  torn  from  the  book  of  a  human 
life  that  he  was  permitted  to  read  that  moment;  an 
open  page — and  at  the  climax.  Reading,  as  he 
could  not  help  but  do,  the  answer  to  the  question 
asked  was  fair  before  his  eyes;  an  answer  final  as 
death  itself,  as  unquestionable — and  unbelievable 
almost  as  it  was,  that  answer  was  negative ! 

"I  had  thought  so  before,"  he  said  slowly;  "but 
now — now  I  don't  know." 

"You'd  thought  so,"  swiftly.  "I  thought  so  my- 
self once,  when  I  was  your  age;  but  long  ago  I 
knew  better."  One  of  the  speaker's  hands  passed 
absently  across  his  face,  dropped  to  his  lap.  "I 
know  better,"  he  repeated;  "know,  not  think.  If 
you  still  believe  differently  disabuse  your  mind  of 
that  idea  now  for  all  time."  Again  he  leaned  for- 
ward; suddenly,  insistently,  intimately  close. 
"Take  the  word  of  one  who  has  travelled  the  trail 
— there's  no  such  thing  as  arriving  on  the  road  to 
attainment.  It's  all  a  rainbow,  a  will  o'  the  wisp. 
The  farther  you  go,  the  farther  it  recedes  ahead  of 
you.  Sometimes,  when  the  blood  is  hot,  you  think 
you've  found  your  destination  and  reach  out  your 
hand  to  take  in  the  prize — and  reach  into  empty 
space.  You  work,  work,  day  and  night,  night  and 
day  and  fancy  at  last  the  thing  is  yours.  But  it 


280  The  Quest  Eternal 

isn't.  Still  just  beyond,  just  out  of  reach,  it  dangles 
there;  beckoning  you  on,  tantalising,  maddening. 
Others,  watching,  not  knowing,  may  give  you  the 
credit  of  attainment;  but  in  your  own  soul  you 
know  better  and  their  applause  is  hollow.  I  know 
this,  I  say,  know  it.  The  road  to  ambition  is  one 
that  has  no  turning;  and  but  one  destination — and 
that  is  death.  Don't  fancy  it's  otherwise,  my  boy; 
or  that  there's  a  resting  point  before  that  end.  I'm 
on  the  trail  now,  well  along  toward  the  end,  and  I 
know." 

Suddenly  the  swiftly  flowing  stream  of  words 
ceased.  Absently  as  before  the  hand  passed  over 
the  doctor's  face.  He  breathed  deep,  as  one 
awakening. 

"I've  wandered,"  he  said  monotonously,  "but  I 
felt  somehow  that  you  ought  to  understand,  now; 
that  it  was  my  duty  if  possible  to  make  you  under- 
stand. If  I've  meddled  I'm  sorry,  but  at  least  it 
was  meant  kindly." 

"I  believe  you,  doctor,"  said  the  listener  simply, 
"and  I  think  I — understand.  I  thank  you." 

A  moment  they  sat  there  so,  each  thinking  his  own 
thoughts,  each  confronting  the  impenetrable  wall 
that  is  fate  personified.  Then,  interrupting  as  it 
had  done  before,  bringing  them  both  suddenly  back 
to  the  affair  of  the  moment,  McLeod  coughed. 

It  was  the  cue  to  the  last  act  of  the  drama,  the 
bell  that  preceded  the  raising  of  the  curtain  on  the 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable  281 

final  scene.  Responsive,  the  eyes  of  the  two  princi- 
pals met,  remained  so  in  mutual  attention. 

"If  you'd  like  to  hear  I'm  ready  to  make  my  re- 
port on  your  case  now,"  said  the  elder. 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  hear  it,  doctor,"  answered  the 
other. 

"You  requested  me  to  report  exactly,  that's  the 
word  you  used." 

"I  remember." 

"I'll  do  so  then.  You  are  consumptive,  Mr. 
McLeod,  without  a  doubt.  You're  well  along  in 
the  first  stage  and  approaching  the  second." 

Not  a  muscle  of  the  visitor's  body  stirred  at  the 
announcement,  not  a  muscle  twitched  in  his  face. 

"And  the  prognosis,  doctor,  please?" 

"If  you  go  back,  back  to  nature  from  which  you 
came,  stay  there,  I  believe  there's  time  yet." 

A  pause,  a  terribly  meaning  pause. 

"You  mean  I'm  to  get  off  the  trail  indefinitely, 
forever.  I'm  merely  to — live?" 

"Yes.  As  I  said  before,  that's  all  any  of  us  can 
do,  live  our  one  life." 

"And  if  I  refuse  to  leave  the  game,  to  go  back — 
how  long ?" 

"You  are  a  Junior  you  say?" 

"Yes." 

"You'll  never  live  to  graduate,  Mr.  McLeod. 
Never!" 


282  The  Quest  Eternal 

Outside  in  the  waiting  room  Treadway  arose  as 
the  visitor  emerged  from  the  inner  door.  Con- 
cerning what  had  passed  within,  he  made  no  com- 
ment, spoke  no  question.  To  have  done  so  were 
superfluous,  and  he  seldom  did  the  unnecessary. 
He  simply  put  on  his  hat  and,  as  though  their 
meeting  in  that  place  were  a  matter  of  every-day 
occurrence,  descended  with  the  other  to  the  street. 
Not  until  they  were  outside  the  arched  entrance  did 
either  speak;  then  the  elder  halted  and  laid  a  hand 
detainingly  on  his  companion's  shoulder. 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  dinner  with  me,  McLeod," 
he  said  bluntly.  "I've  got  several  things  to  talk 
over  with  you." 

The  latter  did  not  misunderstand,  did  not  pretend 
to. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  declined  hurriedly.  Then  as 
suddenly  he  smiled;  the  old  slow  smile  that  deep- 
ened the  crow's  feet  about  his  eyes.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve I  could  eat  anything  just  now — even  with  you. 
I'm  going  home." 

"All  right."  The  hand  left  the  other's  shoulder. 
"I'll  go  with  you." 

"Not  that  either  to-night,  please,  doctor."  The 
smile  had  vanished,  but  the  blue  eyes  still  met  the 
other  level  and  steady.  "I'm  lost  between  the  devil 
and  the  deep  sea,  and  each  have  points  in  their 
favour.  I  want  to  be  alone  for  a  bit  and  find  my- 
self." 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable  283 

"And  I  want  to  be  along,  to  help  you  find  your- 
self," echoed  his  companion  bluntly.  "I'm  going 
with  you." 

A  moment  they  stood  so,  while  the  busy  town 
hurried  by. 

"Not  if  I  request  you  otherwise,  doctor,"  said  a 
voice  at  last.  "I  meant  what  I  said." 

Treadway  pressed  the  matter  no  further;  but  his 
face  was  not  the  face  of  one  who  had  abandoned 
his  purpose. 

"Very  well,"  he  accepted. 

"To-morrow,  any  time  you  choose,  you  can  find 
me  at  the  medical  building  or  I'll  look  you  up." 

"To-morrow  will  be  too  late.  I  go  back  in  the 
morning." 

"I'm  sorry."  It  was  finality;  yet  finality  without 
affectation.  "But  when  one's  in  Hell  there's  no  use 
pretending  otherwise.  I  simply  can't  talk  it  over 
with  you  to-night.  It's  all  too  near." 

They  had  started  up  the  walk;  mechanically,  in- 
stinct leading  toward  the  doctor's  hotel.  Though 
it  was  the  dinner  hour  and  business  traffic  for  the 
day  had  ceased,  the  hum  of  the  human  hive  still 
came  to  their  ears,  the  ceaseless  beat  of  the  city's 
heart  that  never  halted  night  or  day.  Not  until 
they  were  at  the  entrance  of  the  big  hostelry,  the 
electric  arc  that  marked  its  place  over  their  heads, 
was  a  word  spoken.  Then  as  before  Treadway 
halted,  his  face  an  impenetrable  mask. 


284  The  Quest  Eternal 

"I  saw  Peg  Stanton  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "I 
happened  to  be  in  the  lobby  here  when  she  and  her 
manager  first  arrived." 

As  one  whose  mind  had  been  far  away  Bob 
McLeod  aroused. 

"I — beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

Deliberately  as  before,  word  for  word,  Treadway 
repeated  his  remark. 

"Peg !"  For  once  in  his  life  at  least  McLeod  was 
taken  absolutely  off  guard,  absolutely  without  warn- 
ing. As  when  he  had  coughed  the  hot  blood 
mounted  to  his  temples,  burned  in  crimson  blots  on 
his  thin  face.  "Peg — here?"  he  repeated. 
"Why?" 

"Why?"  Treadway  stared.  "Haven't  you  read 
the  papers,  man?" 

"No.  It's  been  the  end  of  the  term  with  finals 
every  day  and  the  laboratory  full  and  I  haven't 
teen  outside  the  building  before  for  a  week.  What 
is  it?" 

"Nor  you  didn't  notice  the  billboards  coming 
down  to-day?" 

"I  had  something  on  my  mind  coming  down.  I 
saw  nothing." 

Unconsciously  Treadway  passed  his  hand  over  his 
face.  He  had  a  premonition  that  something  big- 
ger even  than  he  had  anticipated  was  about  to  take 
place. 

"I  never  dreamed  you  didn't  know,"  he  hesitated. 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable.  285 

"It  was  one  of  the  reasons  that  brought  m4  nowr 
when  I  shouldn't  have  left.  She's  here  to  sing,  man, 
in  the  Opera  House  to-night." 

At  last  it  was  out  and  McLeod  understood;  but 
if  Treadway  expected  a  surface  revelation  at  the 
demonstration  he  was  to  be  disappointed.  Instead, 
swiftly  as  the  red  blood  had  come,  it  vanished  from 
the  other's  cheeks,  leaving  them  colourless.  Simul- 
taneously about  his  eyes  the  crow's  feet  smoothed,, 
as  though  every  muscle  beneath  the  skin  had  gone 
lax.  If  ever  there  was  an  inscrutable  gambler's- 
face  it  was  that  of  Robert  McLeod  at  that  moment. 

In  a  flash  it  was  done,  swiftly  as  thought  travels, 
as  decision  had  come.  For  that  instant,  clearly  as 
though  he  had  been  told,  as  unmistakably  plainly, 
the  man  realised  the  object  of  the  big  doctor's  com- 
ing at  this  time.  As  by  telepathy  he  knew  what  was- 
passing  through  his  mind  at  this  moment.  He  did 
not  guess,  he  knew ;  and  as  suddenly  his  own  course 
was  clear.  A  day  previous,  perhaps,  the  way  would 
not  have  been  so  easy  to  decide;  but  now,  with  the 
finality  that  Schoup  had  spoken  fresh  in  his  mind, 
there  was  no  alternative,  no  question.  Yet,  know- 
ing, he  did  not  dissimulate.  It  was  not  his  way. 

"I  knew  absolutely  nothing  about  it  before,  doc- 
tor," he  said.  "I  supposed  she  was  a  thousand  miles* 
away." 

"But  now  that  you  do  know,"  it  was  the  oppor- 
tunity for  which  he  had  been  working  and  Tread- 


286  The  Quest  Eternal 

way  grasped  it  with  both  hands,  "you  won't  refuse 
to  see  me  to-night?" 

"Not  if  it  is  before  ten  o'clock." 

"Before  ten!  You're  crazy,  man.  Aren't  you  go- 
ing to  the  Opera  House  to  hear  her?" 

"I  expect  to  now." 

"And  afterward?" 

"I'm  going  to  leave  town  afterward,  immediately, 
doctor." 

"Leave  town  for  good?" 

"For  good  or  for  bad — forever  at  least." 

Again  Treadway's  hand  passed  over  his  face. 
That  which  he  had  presaged  had  come  to  pass. 

"And  for  where  ?"  he  asked.    "For  where  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that,  doctor." 

"You  mean  you  don't  intend  me  to  know,  don't 
intend  any  one  to  know." 

"Yes,"  gently,  "I  mean  that  exactly,  doctor." 

With  a  grip  like  a  vice  Treadway  caught  the  other 
by  the  shoulders,  shook  them  unconsciously. 

"You're  mad,  man,"  he  blazed,  "clean  mad!" 

"No.  On  the  contrary,  I'm  sane;  sane  for  the  first 
time  in  years." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  met,  steadily,  understand- 
ingly.  Before  that  look  the  elder  was  helpless.  Of 
a  sudden  he  turned  away. 

"We  can't  discuss  that  here,"  he  said  swiftly,  "but 
I  must  see  you,  talk  with  you — at  once.  Where 
do  you  live  ?" 


The  Dead  Wall  of  the  Inevitable   287 

"In  the  medical  building.  In  the  janitor's  room 
back  of  the  biological  laboratory." 

A  cab  was  standing  by  the  curb  and,  turning, 
Treadway  motioned  to  the  driver. 

"You'll  let  me  go  along  with  you,  now  that  you 
know,  won't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  if  you  wish." 

"All  right  then,  come.  .  .  .  Medical  building,  the 
University,  driver;"  and  leading,  almost  pushing 
the  other  ahead  of  him,  he  disappeared  within  the 
carriage  door. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  FINAL  DEAL 

THE  naked  light  from  a  gas  jet  inadequately  lit  up 
the  cluttered  stock  room  at  the  rear  of  the  bio- 
logical laboratory,  bringing  out  in  shadowy  outline 
the  rows  of  carefully  labelled  bottles  on  the  shelves, 
the  racks  of  test  tubes,  the  long  line  of  microscopes, 
the  manifold  diverse  paraphernalia  stored  in  the 
place.  Flickering  from  its  arm  over  the  single 
work  table  it  lit  up  clearly  one  side  of  the  face  of 
each  of  the  two  men  who  sat  beside  it,  leaving  the 
other  half  in  shadow.  Save  for  that  light  and  the 
two  humans  beneath,  throughout  the  extent  of  the 
big  stone  pile,  that  was  the  medical  building,  no 
sign  of  life  was  manifest.  Similarly  the  Hall  of 
Liberal  Arts  and  College  of  Pharmacy  that  flanked 
it  on  either  side  were  dark,  deserted.  Like  an 
abandoned  village,  this  lesser  city  of  learning  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  greater  was  muffled  for  the 
night  in  unbroken  silence.  Within  the  tiny  room, 
against  the  background  of  that  stillness  all  per- 
vading, the  voice  of  the  elder  man  was  speaking; 
not  calmly  or  disjointedly  as  was  his  wont,  but  flu- 
ently, almost  passionately. 
"I've  lain  back  and  said  nothing  and  watched  you 


The  Final   Deal  289 

go  your  own  gait  as  long  as  I'm  going  to,"  he  was 
saying.  "I've  hinted  to  be  sure  and  suggested  now 
and  then;  and  that's  been  all.  But  the  time  for 
that  is  past.  I  didn't  simply  happen  to  come  down 
here  or  merely  chance  to  arrive  at  this  time.  I 
came  because  I  wouldn't  keep  still,  couldn't  any 
longer.  Maybe  it's  an  impertinence  to  crowd  my- 
self into  your  affairs  this  way,  against  your  wishes, 
but  I'm  going  to  do  it  anyway.  Knowing  you  as  I 
have  I'd  feel  like  a  criminal  if  I  didn't.  I  like  you, 
Bob  McLeod.  I've  liked  you  from  that  morning 
years  ago  when  your  father  first  brought  you  into 
my  office.  I  have  a  right  to  have  you  take 
me  into  your  confidence.  Aren't  you  going  to  do 
so?" 

The  younger  man  addressed  did  not  stir  in  his 
place,  did  not  glance  up. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'll  be  glad  to.  But  it  won't 
make  any  difference  in  my  decision.  I'm  right  and 
I  know  I'm  right;  and  I've  made  up  my  mind. 
Nothing  except  a  miracle  could  change  things  as 
they  are,  and  it  isn't  an  age  of  miracles.  Circum- 
stances are  a  mountain,  doctor,  which  even  you 
can't  move." 

Treadway's  great  shoulders  shrugged  impatiently; 
eloquently  in  contrast  with  his  customary  impassiv- 
ity. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I'll  at  least  have  the  con- 
solation of  knowing  that  I  tried."  His  big  hand 


290  The  Quest  Eternal 

stretched  out  on  the  table  before  him.  "To  begin 
with  you  still  refuse  to  tell  me  where  you're  going 
when  you  leave  town  to-night." 

"I  can't  do  otherwise  for  the  present,"  dispas- 
sionately. "Perhaps  some  time  in  the  future  when 
things  are  different " 

"Why  do  you  refuse?    Tell  me  that." 

Just  for  an  instant  McLeod's  eyes  lifted,  met  the 
other's  look;  then  dropped  as  before. 

"It's  useless  to  answer  that  question.  You  know 
already." 

"Is  it  because  you  don't  want  to  meet  Peg  again 
and  you  think  I'm  trying  to  bring  it  about?" 

The  younger  man  smiled,  his  slow  smile.  "Think, 
doctor?"  he  echoed. 

Again  the  great  shoulders  shrugged,  but  in  silence. 

The  smile  left  the  other's  face. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  reason,"  he  said. 

"And  why?  Don't  say  I  know  already,  but  tell 
me  exactly  why." 

For  an  instant  there  was  silence;  then  breaking  it, 
uncanny  in  its  instinctive  answer  as  that  moment, 
McLeod  coughed.  Silence  returned. 

"That's  one  reason,  the  latest  and  best,"  he  said 
low. 

"You'll  get  over  that,"  countered  Treadway,  "if 
you  do  as  Dr.  Schoup  advises.  He  told  me  so.  I 
asked  him." 

"Perhaps,"  evenly,  "if  I  pay  the  price." 


The  Final  Deal  291 

"Price  isn't  to  be  considered  when  it's  in  exchange 
for  life.  Life  is  all  we  have  here." 

"I  begin  to  believe  that,"  echoed  a  voice.  "It's 
all  we  have." 

The  big  hand  on  the  table  moved  back  and  forth, 
drawing  invisible,  fanciful  figures.  A  moment 
passed  so. 

"The  reason  you  give  is  inadequate,"  said  the 
owner  of  the  hand  at  last,  "because  it  will  cease  to 
exist.  What  other  have  you?" 

"You  really  think  it  inadequate?" 

"Yes.    Assuredly  yes.    Yes  to  infinity." 

"How  about  this,  then?"  Just  perceptibly 
McLeod  indicated  the  clumsy  boot  stretched  out 
straight  before  him.  "Will  that  cease  to  exist 
too?" 

"I  don't  see  that  responsibility  cuts  any  figure 
now,"  said  McLeod.  "The  fact  remains  that  it  is 
so." 

"No;  but  who  is  responsible  for  its  being  so?" 

"No  figure,  eh!  Doesn't  it  make  any  difference 
that  it's  part  of  the  price  paid  to  make  Peg  Stan- 
ton  what  she  is  now,  the  price  you  paid?" 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  say  that,  doctor,  even  to 
me,"  said  McLeod. 

"But  I  will  say  it,"  swiftly.  "I  tell  you  the  time 
has  gone  by  for  mincing  matters  or  ignoring  them. 
As  long  as  there  seemed  a  show  of  things  working 
out  right  without  my  interference  I  steered  clear. 


292  The  Quest  Eternal 

Give  me  credit  for  that.  But  now  you  know  as  well 
as  I  know  that  the  game's  nearing  an  end.  You've 
been  dealt  your  last  hand.  Whether  you  ever  for- 
give me  or  not  I'm  going  to  help  you  play  it  for  all 
it's  worth." 

There  was  no  answer  and  the  big  doctor  paused 
a  moment,  breathing  hard. 

"I  repeat,"  he  rushed  on,  "that  although  Peg 
doesn't  realise  it,  you  and  I  know  that  she's  the 
cause  of  your  being  lame.  It's  an  added  reason  for 
your  seeing  her,  not  against !  We're  looking  things 
squarely  in  the  face  now.  We're  dealing  with  re- 
alities, not  with  ideals.  You've  lost  the  thing  you 
were  playing  for,  the  cards  were  against  you;  but 
the  biggest  stake  of  all  is  still  up.  Some  day,  when 
you're  as  old  as  I  am,  you'll  realise  that  ambition 
isn't  the  largest  thing  in  life  after  all.  I  don't  ex- 
pect you  to  believe  this  now  and  I  won't  try  to 
prove  it,  but  it  is  so.  The  biggest  thing  that  life 
holds  is  happiness;  and  that's  still  possible  if  you 
play  your  hand." 

For  the  first  time  McLeod's  eyes  lifted,  met  the 
other  fair. 

"Granting  for  the  sake  of  argument  that  to  be 
true,  just  how  would  you  have  me  play  my  hand?" 
he  asked.  "Just  how  to  bring — happiness." 

"How?"  Treadway's  great  fist  on  the  table 
clenched,  then  met  the  board  with  a  crash.  "Marry 
her.  Get  away  from  the  ideal  for  once  and  live 


The  Final  Deal  293 

in  reality.  Be  a  human  being  and  cease  trying  for 
the  impossible.  Marry  her." 

"Aren't  you  taking  a  bit  for  granted?"  asked 
a  quiet  voice.  "I  haven't  seen  her  or  had  a  word 
from  her  in  three  years  now.  For  all  I  know  she's 
ceased  to  remember  I  exist.  Seems  to  me  it's  you 
and  not  myself  who  are — wandering,  doctor." 

"It  does,  does  it !"  Infinite  satire  was  in  the  words. 
"You  fancy  she's  forgotten  you  entirely,  eh!" 
Irony  could  go  no  farther  and  for  a  second  the 
voice  halted.  Then  for  the  second  time  the  fist 
met  the  board.  "Why,  if  that's  so,  do  you  refuse 
to  see  her,  to  find  out  for  sure?  Why,  Bob 
McLeod,  tell  me  that?" 

"Why?"  The  blue  eyes  did  not  droop  this  time 
nor  shift.  "I'll  tell  you  exactly  why,  doctor — and 
it's  not  the  reason  you  think  either.  It's  not  be- 
cause I'm  afraid  of  her  caring.  I'm  not  egotist 
enough  for  that  yet.  She's  met  too  many  successes 
these  last  years,  known  them  too  well,  to  care  for  a 
failure.  She  might  feel  gratitude  and  sympathy — 
she  would,  I  know  her — ;  but  for  caring  in  the 
way  you  mean — "  He  halted.  His  breath  came 
quick.  "No,  that  isn't  the  reason,  doctor.  I'm  not 
a  fool.  It's  myself  I'm  afraid  of.  It's  because 
I'm  the  human  being  you  try  to  make  out  I'm  not. 
It's  because  I'm  afraid  I'd  abuse  that  very  grati- 
tude and  do  something  I'd  always  regret.  As  it 
is  we're  both  well  off.  The  past  is  dead  and  the 


294  The  Quest  Eternal 

things  of  the  past.  It's  because  I  won't  resurrect 
that  past  that  I  won't  see  her.  For  that  reason 
and  that  alone." 

A  moment  they  sat  so  looking  at  each  other ;  then 
instinctively  Treadway  leaned  forward,  compel- 
lingly. 

"And  if  she  does  care  the  way  I  said,"  he  goaded, 
"supposing  she  herself  wants  to  resurrect  that 
past?" 

"She  can't,"  swiftly.  "The  suggestion  is  prepos- 
terous. She's  seen  too  much,  lived  too  much,  grown 
too  fast.  She  can't." 

"Can't,  eh!"  The  great  jaw  locked  stubbornly. 
"You're  blind  or  the  fool  you  say  you're  not, 
McLeod.  Why  else  do  you  suppose  she  came  back 
here  to  this  town — a  thousand  mile  jump?  Why 
else  than  to  show  you  what  she's  done,  to  see  you,  to 
give  you  a  chance?  You're  a  fool  or  blind,  man, 
one  or  the  other." 

McLeod  laughed,  a  bitter  little  laugh. 

"You'd  make  me  the  first,  if  you  had  your  way, 
doctor,"  he  said  simply. 

"Make  you !  Make  you !"  The  other  struggled 
for  words ;  then,  impotent,  sank  back  into  his  place. 
"I  begin  to  believe  that  the  Lord  Himself  couldn't 
make  you  otherwise,  Bob  McLeod!" 

A  minute  they  sat  so  in  silence;  then  as  suddenly 
came  a  new  lead. 

"Supposing  I  should  tell  you  that  she  did  care. 


The  Final  Deal  295 

that  she  has  written  me  twice  in  the  last  year  inquir- 
ing about  you?"  asked  Treadway.  "What  then?'* 

"I  can't  answer  suppositions,  doctor." 

"Answer  realities.     It's  true." 

"It  makes  no  difference.  It  simply  proves  what  I 
knew  already,  that  she's  grateful — nothing  more." 

Treadway  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and 
it  came  away  damp. 

"You're  driving  me  to  the  last  ditch,"  he  halted. 
"I'm  desperate  and  I'm  going  to  confess  something 
that  I  didn't  mean  to  confess,  that  Peg  didn't  mean 
I  should.  I  only  told  you  part  of  the  truth  when 
I  said  I  saw  her  to-day.  The  fact  is  I  met  her  by 
appointment.  She  wired  from  Chicago  for  me  to 
come.  She  wants  to  see  you,  Bob  McLeod,  asked 
me  to  bring  you.  She's  waiting  now,  this  minute. 
She  cares  for  you,  man.  Aren't  you  going?" 

Listening,  the  face  of  McLeod  grew  white,  white 
to  the  lips;  but,  notwithstanding,  he  did  not  hesi- 
tate. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"No  ?"    The  other  could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"No"  he  repeated. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  that,  knowing  what  I  tell 
you,  that  she  loves  you — you  refuse?" 

"She  doesn't.  She  thinks  she  does,  but  she  doesn't. 
She's  still  back  ten  years  in  the  time  when  we  were 
children.  She  can't  know  me  as  I  am.  It's  impos- 
sible." 


296  The  Quest  Eternal 

A  full  half  minute  Treadway  sat  staring  at  the 
man  opposite,  blankly,  speechless;  then  of  a  sudden 
he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"God,  McLeod,"  he  blazed,  "if  I  hadn't  heard 
with  my  own  ears  and  seen  with  my  own  eyes  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible.  For  a  man  to 
deny  his  senses,  to  throw  his  own  happiness  and  the 
happiness  of  another  under  his  feet  and  trample 
on  them  the  way  you're  doing —  He  seized  his 
hat.  "I've  nothing  more  to  say.  I'm  going." 

Like  a  flash  McLeod  too  was  erect,  his  eyes  blaz- 
ing, his  narrow  shoulders  squared. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said. 

Treadway  did  not  move. 

"Sit  down  I  say.    I  mean  it." 

This  time  Treadway  obeyed.  Why  he  did  so  he 
could  not  have  told,  but  he  obeyed.  Over  him 
towered  the  other;  a  man  he  had  never  seen  before; 
a  being  whom  fancy  even  could  not  have  pictured; 
one  whom  he  would  never  see  again. 

"You  may  go  very  soon,  doctor,"  said  the  voice 
of  this  man,  "but  first  I've  got  something  I  wish  to 
say  to  you.  You — talk  to  me  about  right  and 
happiness  and  my  due.  Did  it  never  occur  to  you 
that  others  had  rights  and  things  their  due?  Do 
you  suppose  Peg  has  none?"  He  came  a  step  for- 
ward. His  narrow  shoulders  tightened.  "Look 
at  me!"  In  dead  silence  he  limped  the  length  of 
the  room  and  back  again,  halted  as  before.  "Look, 


The  Final  Deal  297 

I  say !  It  isn't  a  pleasant  matter,  I  realise,  but  we 
may  as  well  have  an  understanding  for  all  time. 
You  see  what  I  am,  what  I  always  will  be.  Do  you 
fancy  for  the  sake  of  childish  gratitude  or  the  little 
I've  done  to  help  her  on  her  way  I'd  ask  Peg  Stan- 
ton  to  marry  a  man  like  myself?"  He  halted  for 
breath  but  not  for  an  answer.  "You  speak  of  hap- 
piness, my  happiness.  Do  you  fancy  I'd  know  a 
second's  happiness  if  I  took  advantage  of  the  past 
to  do  a  thing  like  that?  God,  man,  your  opinion 
of  me  must  be  low !  Even  a  brute  mates  with  its 
own  equal;  and  I — "  He  caught  himself,  the  sen- 
tence incomplete;  and  sat  down.  But  still  he  did 
not  pause  for  denial  or  for  answer. 

"I  say  that  while  we're  on  the  subject  we  may  as 
well  settle  it  for  all  time.  I've  a  little  pride  and 
self-respect  left  even  yet.  Such  being  the  case,  even 
if  I  weren't  hopelessly  crippled  I  wouldn't  drag 
Peg  Stanton  down  to  me  now.  I'm  beaten,  doctor, 
there's  no  use  denying  the  obvious;  and  I'll  always 
remain  beaten.  To  live  at  all  it's  got  to  be  in  the 
open,  away  from  where  other  men  congregate — 
and  that  means  oblivion.  I  can  earn  a  few  dollars 
a  day,  enough  by  economy  to  keep  me  off  the  county 
when  I  get  old — if  I  live  until  then;  and  that's  all. 
Peg  has  become  accustomed  to  a  different  life  abso- 
lutely. It's  her  right,  her  due.  Do  you  fancy  that 
if  I  were  physically  her  equal  I'd  be  selfish  enough 
to  drag  her  down  to  this  other  life  with  me;  back 


298  The  Quest  Eternal 

into  poverty  and  work  and  monotony;  back  where 
she  was  ten  years  ago,  when  she  broke  free? 
Haven't  you  ever  thought  of  her  side  at  all?  You 
say  we're  facing  realities  and  not  fancies.  That's 
exactly  what  I'm  doing  now."  He  sank  back  in 
his  chair.  From  tension  his  whole  body  went  lax. 
"It's  exactly  the  real  that  makes  me  refuse  to  see 
her  now,  to  ever  see  her  again  of  my  own  free  will. 
That's  what  I  wished  to  say  before  you  go,  doc- 
tor." 

Bit  by  bit  while  the  other  was  speaking  Treadway 
had  dropped  back  into  his  own  seat.  At  the  close 
his  great  bushy  head  was  sunk  low  on  his  shoulders, 
his  hands  loose  in  his  lap.  But  his  eyes  never  left 
the  other's  face. 

"I  understand  your  point  of  view,"  he  said,  "and 
as  I  told  you  before  it's  useless  to  argue  with  you 
now  that  success  isn't  the  biggest  thing  in  life.  I 
won't  try  to  prove  either  that,  caring  for  you,  Peg 
would  be  happier  with  you  and — dinginess  than 
elsewhere  with  her  name  on  every  one's  lips."  The 
voice  was  the  speaker's  normal  voice,  even  and 
slow.  "I'll  merely  tell  you  a  story;  and  if  that 
doesn't  mean  anything  to  you  I'll  say  good-bye  and 
go."  For  an  instant  he  halted  and,  intentionally 
or  unintentionally,  shifted  in  his  seat  until  his  face 
was  in  shadow.  "It's  the  story  of  my  own — failure, 
Bob  McLeod;  and  when  I  tell  it  to  you  it'll  be  the 
first  time  I've  ever  done  so  to  man  or  woman. 


The  Final  Deal  299 

"I  was  raised  in  the  country  like  you  were;  only 
east  in  the  Michigan  timber  lands.  My  father  and 
another  man  named — never  mind  the  name,  they 
were  chums — were  married  the  same  day  and  went 
into  the  backwoods  together  to  clear  up  farms  of 
their  own.  The  two  families  built  their  log  houses 
side  by  side;  worked  together,  all  but  lived  to- 
gether. No  other  settlers  for  years  were  within 
miles,  around  them  was  untouched  timber — it  was 
before  the  logging  days — and  they  were  very  neces- 
sary to  each  other.  I  was  born  there ;  the  first  child 
born  to  either  family.  In  a  month  came  another, 
a  girl,  to  the  other  house.  Afterward  followed  a 
long  line,  for  both  couples  had  large  families;  but 
never  mind  about  them.  Mary,  Marie  they  called 
her — they  were  French  that  other  family — and  I 
grew  up  together;  amid  the  same  surroundings, 
living  the  same  life.  As  babies,  as  children,  as  boy 
and  girl  there  wasn't  a  day  for  eighteen  years  that 
we  didn't  see  each  other.  What  one  knew  the  other 
knew;  for  at  first  my  mother  taught  us  both,  and 
afterwards,  when  a  district  school  was  started,  we 
attended  together:  riding  the  same  horse,  back 
and  forth  through  the  clearings.  What  one  thought 
the  other  thought;  for  we  told  each  other  every- 
thing. So  far,  until  we  were  both  eighteen,  it's 
the  same  old  story;  one  that  inevitably  could  have 
but  a  single  ending.  What  that  was  it's  useless  to 
tell.  Human  nature  is  alike  the  world  over. 


300  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Then  something  happened.  Why  or  how  or 
from  where  I  got  it  I  don't  know;  but  there  came 
to  me  an  indefinite  desire  to  do  more  than  my 
father  had  done,  or  his  father.  None  of  the  old 
folks  understood  it.  They  couldn't.  When  I  told 
them  they  laughed.  When  I  asked  permission  to 
go  to  the  city  my  father  refused,  positively.  Just 
one  person  among  them  realised  that  I  was  in  ear- 
nest; and  that  was  Marie.  She  understood,  felt,  I 
think  now,  the  same  desire  herself;  but  she  never 
said  so  and  I  never  guessed.  She  urged  me  on, 
helped  me,  planned  with  me — and  one  night  I  ran 
away. 

"That  was  the  beginning.  What  I  did  the  next 
five  years  doesn't  matter.  I  did  everything,  any- 
thing, to  make  a  living.  The  same  thing  has  been 
gone  through  a  million  times  by  a  million  other 
boys,  restless  like  myself  with  an  indefinite  lack 
which  they  couldn't  solve.  We  were  engaged, 
Marie  and  myself,  when  I  left — as  young  people 
are  engaged.  For  a  while  I  kept  writing  to  her; 
but  each  time  the  letters  came  back  unopened,  re- 
turned by  her  father.  She  had  no  chance  to  get 
her  mail  herself,  and  had  no  intimate  friend  to  help 
her;  so  I  quit  writing  and  waited. 

"Then  at  last  I  found  myself.  I'd  drifted  mean- 
while to  Chicago  and  got  a  job  as  handy  man  to  a 
doctor  in  the  suburbs.  Among  other  things  I  used 
to  drive  for  him ;  and  one  night,  in  an  accident  case 


The  Final  Deal  301 

with  no  one  else  he  could  call,  I  helped  him  by 
giving  an  anaesthetic.  For  the  first  time  that  night 
I  caught  my  lead,  knew  what  definite  ambition 
meant;  and  I  began  to  hew  to  the  line.  I  didn't 
forget  the  past.  Marie  was  still  in  my  mind  every 
hour  of  the  day,  had  a  part  in  every  plan;  but  the 
new  incentive  was  insistent.  Temporarily  every- 
thing made  way,  went  into  abeyance 

"Another  five  years  went  by.  It  appears  impos- 
sible now  that  I  drifted  that  long;  but  it  seemed 
short  enough  at  the  time.  With  the  doctor's  help 
I  entered  a  medical  school,  went  through  and  grad- 
uated. In  all  that  time  I  hadn't  heard  from  home, 
not  a  word.  I'd  written  several  times;  and,  as  be- 
fore, each  time  the  letters  came  back.  They  were 
of  the  old  stock  and  unforgiving.  When  I  finished 
school  the  doctor  took  me  in  with  him.  He  was 
getting  old  and  pushed  me  in  his  place.  I  filled  it, 
for  it  was  my  work.  Chance,  or  Providence,  or 
whatever  it  was  had  put  me  into  one  of  the  best 
practices  of  the  city.  I'd  waited  so  long  then  that 
it  seemed  to  me  another  year  would  make  no  dif- 
ference, and  for  that  time  I  remained  there  in  prac- 
tice. I  saved  money  that  year;  enough  to  get  me 
started ;  enough  to  make  a  good  payment  on  a  home 
and  I  bought  one.  At  last,  I  thought,  I  had  ar- 
rived, I  was  in  a  position  to  begin  to  live,  to  think 
of  happiness.  At  last  I  was  ready  to  go  back." 

For  the  first  time  in  the  narrative  there  was  an 


302  The  Quest  Eternal 

appreciable  pause,  a  halt  of  prophecy.  For  the 
first  time  the  steady  voice  grew  uneven,  the  sen- 
tences jerky. 

"Then  I  went  back.  After  I  got  started  all  at 
once  I  was  in  the  grip  of  a  perfect  fever  of  im- 
patience. I  couldn't  find  a  train  that  went  fast 
enough.  I  cursed  the  little  towns  with  their  short 
pauses  and  the  bigger  ones  with  their  longer  waits. 
It  was  night  when  I  reached  our  home  town  and 
went  to  the  only  hotel.  I  didn't  tell  any  one  there, 
though,  who  I  was.  I  recognised  some  of  the  old 
people  I'd  known,  but  none  of  them  knew  me. 
That  set  me  to  thinking.  I'd  grown  a  beard  and 
looked  older  by  twenty  years  than  when  I'd  left; 
and  of  a  sudden  I  wondered  if  she,  Marie,  would 
recognise  me.  The  more  I  thought  of  it  the  more 
I  doubted.  I  wanted  her  to  do  so,  at  sight,  incon- 
testably;  and  I  decided  to  get  rid  of  the  beard.  I 
felt  I  couldn't  wait  for  morning  to  do  it,  wouldn't. 
I  was  going  out  as  soon  as  it  was  light  and  I  had 
no  razor,  so  I  routed  a  barber  out  of  bed.  He 
thought  I  was  crazy,  I  guess ;  but  he  shaved  me  and 
my  age  went  back  ten  years. 

"It  was  winter  and  the  nights  were  long,  but  I 
didn't  sleep  any  that  night.  I  sat  up  dressed  and 
ready  in  my  room,  smoking  and  smoking,  and 
thinking  and  thinking.  At  daylight  I  started.  It 
was  six  miles  out  and  I  didn't  wait  for  breakfast. 
I  was  my  own  driver  and  I  was  ashamed  even  then 


The  Final  Deal  303 

of  the  way  I  drove  that  team.  I  didn't  see  a  thing 
along  the  road.  I  knew  it  without  thinking,  instinc- 
tively. I  didn't  see  anything  until  the  old  place 
came  in  view.  Then  at  last  I  began  to  grow  sane. 
They'd  think  something  terrible  had  happened  if 
I  came  rushing  in  that  way,  and  I  didn't  want  to 
frighten  them ;  so  I  pulled  the  team  down  to  a  walk. 
Early  as  it  was  there  was  smoke  trailing  out  of  both 
chimneys.  When  I  got  near,  a  dog,  a  new  dog, 
came  rushing  out  to  bark;  but  otherwise,  so  far  as 
I  could  see,  there  was  no  change.  Maybe  the 
clearings  that  stretched  out  back  of  the  farm-yard 
were  larger,  and  the  trees  that  still  remained  stand- 
ing thinner;  but  I  didn't  know.  Things  always 
look  different  when  one  goes  back,  after  years.  I 
drove  up  to  my  father's  house  and  stopped. 

"For  a  bit  I  sat  there  in  the  wagon  so.  I  knew  the 
dog  would  rouse  them  and  I  merely  waited.  I  was 
right,  it  did.  Slowly  at  last  the  door  opened,  until 
it  was  wide  enough  for  a  person  to  stand  in  the 
aperture ;  and  a  man  therein  stared  out — my  father. 

"For  a  minute  I  guess  neither  of  us  stirred;  just 
looked  at  each  other.  I  recognised  him  instantly 
and  he  knew  me  about  as  quick.  His  hair  was 
greyer  and  his  shoulders  rounder  than  of  old;  but 
that  was  all.  We  simply  looked  at  each  other,  I 
say,  until  I  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

"  'I've  come  back,'  I  said  then — and  that  was  all. 

"  'I  see  you  have' — and  that  was  all  he  said. 


304  The  Quest  Eternal 

'  'Aren't  you  glad,'  I  asked,  'you  and — mother?' 

"The  dog  came  up,  sniffed  first  at  the  horses,  then 
at  the  wheels  of  the  buggy ;  and  finally  laid  down  on 
the  doorstep  watching  us. 

"My  father  never  came  out,  never  left  the  door- 
way. 

"  'No,  I'm  not  glad — particularly,'  he  said. 

"  'But  mother — at  least  she — '  I  stopped.  Before 
he  had  told  me  I  knew. 

"  'I'm  all  alone  here  now.'  He  looked  at  me 
again.  'Maybe  John  and  Tina  and  the  rest  will  be 
glad.  I  don't  know.  They're  married  now.'  He 
stepped  back  as  though  I  had  inquired  the  road 
and  he  had  answered.  'You  might  find  out  for 
yourself,'  and  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

"But  even  after  he'd  gone  I  still  sat  there  looking 
at  the  closed  door,  too  stunned  by  the  suddenness 
of  it  all  for  a  bit  to  act.  I  had  counted  on  an  in- 
evitable change,  reproaches  perhaps ;  but  open  hos- 
tility, alienation  absolute  such  as  this — I'd  never 
even  conceived  of  such  a  thing.  I  merely  remained 
there,  blankly,  stupidly,  trying  to  reason  it  all  out; 
and  failing  utterly.  The  horses  were  steaming  in 
the  cold  and  shifted  restlessly;  but  I  scarcely 
noticed.  The  dog  stood  up  and  barked  again;  but 
even  that  didn't  rouse  me.  I  think  I  must  have 
sat  five  minutes  so,  maybe  longer.  Then  of  a  sud- 
den interrupting,  very  near  at  hand,  a  voice  spoke ; 
a  man's  voice. 


The  Final  Deal  305 

"  'What's  the  matter,  stranger,'  asked  the  voice, 
'lost  your  way  ?' 

"I  turned,  awake  with  a  rush,  with  a  whirl  of 
recollection.  I  hadn't  noticed  any  one  approach- 
ing; but  instantly  I  recognised  that  voice  with  its 
nasal  drawl,  as  well  as  though  I'd  heard  it  yester- 
day. It  was  the  voice  of  my  father's  old  churn, 
Marie's  father's  voice. 

"I  turned,  I  say,  and  we  stared  at  each  other,  as 
my  father  and  I  had  done.  No  need  to  tell  him 
who  I  was.  His  face  showed  instantly  that  he 
knew.  No  need  to  suggest  that  I'd  returned.  He 
himself  it  was  who  first  made  the  announcement. 

"  'So  you've  come  back — at  last,'  he  said. 

"  'Yes,'  I  said. 

"A  moment  longer  he  looked  at  me;  then  he  too 
turned  away. 

"  'I  didn't  reckon  it  was  you  or  I  wouldn't  have 
bothered  to  come  out,'  he  sentenced  laconically,  and 
started  to  return. 

"  'Wait,'  I  said;  and  again  I  felt  instinctively  the 
premonition  of  disaster  as  when  I  had  heard  of  my 
mother.  'I  was  just  coming  in  to  see  you.' 

"He  stopped  then;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  'I  wanted  to  see  you  all,  to  visit  with  you.' 

"  'Yes.* 

"I  lost  myself  then.  It  was  all  so  horrible,  so 
incredible,  so  relentlessly  implacable. 

"  'Good  God,  man,'  I  blazed,  'can't  you  remember 


306  The  Quest  Eternal 

and  understand?  You  know  well  enough  why  I'm 
here,  why  I've  come  back.  I've  come  to  see 
Marie!' 

"  'Marie,  eh  1*  He  turned  then  and  looked  me 
fair;  and  such  a  look  I  hope  I'll  never  see  on  a 
human  face  again.  'Marie,  eh!'  he  repeated. 
'You've  come  to  the  wrong  place,  Sam  Treadway. 
You  should  have  taken  the  road  to  the  cemetery. 
She's  been  there  two  years  now !' 

The  voice  ceased  and  the  little  room  grew  still, 
gruesomely  still.  A  moment  it  remained  so ;  and  a 
moment  only.  Then,  blunderingly  as  before, 
Treadway's  great  hand  crossed  his  forehead;  and 
as  before — came  back  damp. 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  "except  that  I  never  went 
back  to  Chicago.  I  couldn't.  It  was  too  vital  a 
part  of  the  past,  had  too  many  recollections  con- 
nected. And  besides  the  reason  for  going  was  past 
and  would  never  return.  I  came  West  as  you  know 
instead,  and  kept  on  practising  of  course.  I  had  to 
do  something.  But  I  left  my  ambition  to  accom- 
plish things  behind.  It  died  and  I  buried  it  that 
morning." 

The  tale  was  complete  and  once  more  the  narrator 
shifted  facing. 

"That's  all  of  the  story,  Bob,"  he  said;  "and 
every  word  is  true.  If  it  doesn't  mean  something 
to  you  I've  nothing  more  to  say.  I  had  my  am- 
hition,  bought  its  fulfilment  with  the  price;  and 


The  Final   Deal  307 

after  I'd  gotten  it  the  thing  was  clay.  I'm  an  old 
man  now  and  it  doesn't  make  much  difference  with 
me ;  but  I  like  you,  Bob  McLeod,  and  I  don't  want 
you  to  make  the  same  mistake.  I  tell  you  once 
more  the  big  thing  in  life  isn't  ambition  and  suc- 
cess, but  the  love  of  one  man  and  one  woman — for 
it  alone  is  happiness."  For  the  last  time  he  halted 
until  he  met  the  other's  eyes,  held  them.  "It's  this 
thing  you're  giving  up  now  when  you  refuse  to  go 
with  me,  or  to  go  alone.  Won't  you  reconsider; 
won't  you?" 

Still  another  moment  that  look  held;  and  again 
the  face  of  McLeod  grew  white  to  the  lips.  But 
when  at  last  he  spoke  there  was  no  hesitation,  nor 
shadow  of  doubt. 

"If  it  were  my  own  happiness  we  were  discussing 
there'd  be  no  need  of  reconsidering,"  he  said.  "I'd 
have  gone  long  ago.  But  it  isn't  my  own  happiness 
I'm  thinking  of.  I'm  like  yourself.  It  doesn't 
make  much  difference  with  me  now  anyway.  I'm 
out  of  the  game  and  beaten.  I  can't  go,  doctor." 

Slowly  Treadway  arose,  adjusting  his  hat  the 
while  with  clumsy  hand. 

"This  is  final,  absolutely?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Good-night  then,  and — good-bye." 

Slowly  as  he  had  risen  the  big  doctor  shuffled 
toward  the  door.  With  his  hand  still  on  the  knob 
he  halted  and  glanced  back.  McLeod  had  not 


308  The  Quest  Eternal 

stirred,  still  sat  as  before  staring  blankly  after 
him. 

"Maybe  I'll  see  you  at  the  Opera  House  to- 
night," he  hesitated. 

As  though  of  a  sudden  awakened  McLeod  started. 
Then  in  mute  misery  his  head  dropped  into  his 
hands. 

"No,  you'll  not  see  me  there  to-night,  doctor.  God 
forgive  me  for  the  coward  I  am,  but  I  don't  dare 
to  go  even  there  now."  Again  of  a  sudden  his  face 
lifted,  for  simultaneously  Treadway  had  started 
to  return.  "Don't,"  he  pleaded.  "Go,  please.  I 
want  to  be  alone.  I — must  I" 


CHAPTER  XX 

WHERE  ENDS  THE  QUEST 

ALONE  in  the  basement  stock-room,  Bob  McLeod 
sat  exactly  as  Treadway  had  left  him,  his  narrow 
shoulders  contracted,  his  big  work-stiffened  hands 
locked  in  his  lap.  Since  that  single  motion,  where- 
by momentarily  his  face  had  been  concealed,  he  had 
not  stirred;  not  when  the  other  left,  not  after  he 
was  gone.  For  long,  dragging  minutes  he  remained 
so,  like  one  weary  to  death  and  asleep  in  his  chair; 
asleep  and  resting.  Only  the  eyes,  wide  open,  and 
the  lids  that  involuntarily  opened  and  closed  at  in- 
tervals, testified  otherwise.  He  had  eaten  no  sup- 
per and  it  was  well  past  his  hour;  but  of  that  fact 
he  was  oblivious,  i  There  was  no  steam  on  in  the 
building  and  the  room  was  getting  chilly;  but  cold 
likewise  passed  him  by.  For  one  of  the  few  times 
in  his  life  he  had  forgotten  time,  forgotten  the  in- 
sistent necessity  for  action  in  the  eternal  battle  that 
was  life,  forgotten  completely  the  great  world  that 
worked  and  played  and  laughed  and  cursed  beyond 
those  four  walls.  At  last  the  opportunity  that  he 
had  craved  since  that  hour,  that  now  seemed  days 
ago,  when  he  had  faced  Dr.  Schoup  in  that  private 
office,  had  come.  At  last  he  was  alone — alone  save 


310  The  Quest  Eternal 

for  that  grinning  spectre  of  failure  absolute  that 
no  power  of  his  could  banish;  and  opportunity  for 
thought,  for  adjustment  had  come. 

Yet  on  the  surface  no  hint  of  the  battle  raging 
within  was  apparent.  Save  that  now  and  then  he 
coughed,  involuntarily  as  the  eyelids  moved,  he 
uttered  no  sound.  In  his  lap  the  great  hands  lay 
locked,  motionless.  As  he  had  fought  every  battle 
of  his  solitary  life  he  fought  this  last  biggest  one; 
like  a  wild  thing  fights — silently,  relentlessly,  with- 
in the  seclusion  of  its  own  den.  As  a  wild  thing 
asks,  expects,  no  favour  from  fate  the  inexorable, 
he  likewise  asked  no  quarter;  as  when  years  be- 
fore the  heavens  had  smiled  day  after  day  and  the 
rains  had  not  come,  he  did  not  rebel  against  the  in- 
evitable that  was.  Passive,  passionless  he  accepted 
the  decree  and  adjusted  his  own  tiny  affairs  thereto. 
Against  the  power  supreme,  called  Nature  or 
Chance  or  Fate,  or  God  as  man  might  choose,  he 
had  made  his  fight  and  lost.  The  incident  was  a 
closed  chapter,  a  page  that  was  turned.  It  was  not 
with  another  but  with  himself  that  he  was  battling 
now.  Against  the  other,  against  all  others,  he  had 
lost.  With  himself  the  result  was  to  be  different;  for 
when  at  last  the  present  returned  and  the  locked 
hands  unclasped,  the  struggle,  the  last  struggle  was 
over  and  he  had  won. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  prepare  to 
leave,  and  methodically  as  he  did  everything  he 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  311 

went  about  the  task.  The  laboratory  was  in  con- 
fusion from  the  day's  work;  and  turning  on  the 
lights  he  put  everything  in  order.  Some  of  the  re- 
agent bottles  were  empty  and  he  filled  them  with  a 
practiced  hand.  In  sweeping  he  found  a  fraternity 
pin  that  some  student  had  lost  and  he  posted  a  notice 
on  the  bulletin  board  near  the  door  explaining 
where  it  could  be  reclaimed.  He  forgot  nothing, 
neglected  nothing.  There  was  a  faint  odour  of 
escaping  gas  and  he  went  through  the  long  labora- 
tory cock  by  cock  until  the  leak  was  discovered  and 
the  error  of  a  careless  student  remedied.  Last  of 
all  he  wrote  a  note,  a  methodically  brief  note  ex- 
plaining his  absence,  and  left  it  on  the  desk,  where 
Holmes,  the  professor  in  charge,  would  find  it  di- 
rectly upon  his  arrival  in  the  morning.  Then  and 
not  until  then  he  switched  off  the  lights  and  re- 
turned to  his  place  in  the  back  room. 

There  remained  but  one  thing  to  do  and,  methodi- 
cally as  he  had  gone  to  work  in  the  laboratory,  he 
set  about  collecting  his  few  belongings.  When  he 
had  come  they  had  been  packed  in  the  battered  old 
cloth  telescope.  By  it  likewise  they  were  to  leave. 
From  a  packing  case  which  he  had  converted  into 
a  chest  and  which  still  bore  the  warning  "Glass — 
with  care"  he  produced  his  pitifully  slender  ward- 
robe and  packed  it  first.  From  the  shelf  beneath 
the  lavatory  in  the  corner  he  selected  the  toilet 
articles  which  were  his  own.  Books  he  had  a  few. 


312  The  Quest  Eternal 

a  very  few,  for  he  had  had  access  to  the  department 
library,  and  they  followed;  each  carefully  wrapped 
in  an  old  newspaper.  Last  of  all  he  produced  a 
key  and  from  a  locked  drawer  in  the  table  took  out 
several  articles  therein  contained:  a  bunch  of  letters 
tied  together  with  a  string,  a  piece  of  dotted  mus- 
lin, and  a  tintype  photograph.  With  the  key  still 
in  the  lock  he  thrust  the  drawer  back  into  its  place. 
The  letters,  no  need  to  tell  from  whom,  he  put  un- 
opened into  the  grip.  After  a  moment  the  scrap 
of  muslin  (a  sample  of  the  first  dress  Peg  had 
bought  after  she  left  and  of  whose  fashion,  though 
the  original  he  had  never  seen,  the  description  was 
still  in  mind)  followed.  Over  the  tintype,  taken 
by  an  itinerant  photographer  at  the  expense  of  a 
day's  labour  upon  a  neighbour's  farm,  he  lingered ; 
then  it,  too,  found  a  resting  place  in  an  old  wallet 
which  he  took  from  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 
When  that  was  done  the  packing  was  complete  and 
the  lid  of  the  telescope  was  strapped  into  place. 
On  the  wall  hung  an  old  clock,  a  discard  from  the 
big  lecture  amphitheatre,  which  he  had  patched  up 
so  it  would  run;  and  now  for  the  first  time  he 
glanced  thereat.  It  was  only  7.15,  earlier  appar- 
ently than  he  had  anticipated,  for  he  glanced  a  sec- 
ond time  to  make  sure  that  the  pendulum  swung; 
then,  satisfied,  he  turned  away.  It  was  correct 
doubtless ;  and  his  train  did  not  leave  until  ten.  He 
could  walk  to  the  station  in  twenty  minutes.  There 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  313 

were   still   two    hours   to   wait,    two   hours    and 
over. 

Answering  the  suggestion,  the  certainty  of  vacant 
time  that  must  be  filled,  his  eyes  searched  the  room 
for  a  solution.  On  a  shelf  beside  the  line  of  micro- 
scopes were  a  row  of  battered  reference  books 
awaiting  rebinding;  and,  limping  over,  he  studied 
their  titles,  volume  by  volume.  One  and  all  they 
were  medical  books:  anatomies  and  physiologies 
and  pathologies  and  therapeutics.  Instinctively  as 
he  looked,  a  smile,  grim  as  fate  itself,  formed  about 
his  eyes.  Medical  books  for  him  to  read — now! 
The  irony  was  fine.  What  further  use  had  he  for 
their  lore,  would  he  ever  have !  As  suddenly  as  it 
had  formed  the  smile  passed.  Following,  the  face 
went  blank,  inscrutable;  and,  without  another 
glance,  without  touching  a  volume,  he  returned  to 
the  seat  under  the  single  gas  jet  and  sat  down  un- 
aided to  wait. 


It  was  7.30  by  the  big  clock  in  the  court-house 
tower  when  a  young  woman  came  hastily  out  of  the 
side  exit  of  the  Hotel  Ridgeway.  She  was  unat- 
tended, almost  unobserved.  A  long  coat  of  some 
dark  stuff  concealed  her  gown;  intentionally  it 
would  seem  from  the  way  she  gathered  its  folds  in 
front.  Its  high,  upturned  collar  partially  hid  her 
face;  again  intentionally  it  would  seem,  for  her  chin 


314  The  Quest  Eternal 

was  well  sunk  in  its  folds.  A  cab  was  waiting  at  the 
curb,  and  without  a  glance  to  either  side  she  made 
her  way  swiftly  toward  it.  The  sidewalk  was  dirty 
and  as  she  reached  it  instinct  predominated,  and  in- 
voluntarily the  long  coat  and  the  gown  beneath 
were  lifted  clear  of  its  surface.  Simultaneously 
there  appeared  distinct  against  the  dark  background 
two  telltale  dots  that  were  white  kid  slippers.  She 
stepped  inside. 

"The  university,  medical  building,"  she  directed. 

The  driver  hesitated  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,"  his  free  hand  touched  his  cap, 
"but  the  place  is  empty  nights  now.  The  session's 
over." 

"Thank  you."  The  tone  was  all  comprehending, 
all  final.  "You'll  drive  me  there,  please,  neverthe- 
less." 

The  door  closed  this  time,  the  same  hand  instinc- 
tively making  its  gesture  of  respect,  and  a  moment 
later  the  vehicle  went  rumbling  over  the  downtown 
cobblestones. 

Within,  the  girl  leaned  back  until  her  face  was  in 
shadow  and  gazed  out  on  the  lighted  show  windows 
on  either  side.  At  first,  on  the  crowded  main  street, 
progress  was  slow  and  she  shifted  in  her  place 
restlessly,  unconsciously  as  one  who  is  accustomed 
to  utilising  seconds.  At  the  corner  a  partially  filled 
street  car  passed,  and  at  the  noisy  clang  of  the  gong 
she  started  involuntarily  in  a  nervous  tension  that 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  315 

was  unwonted.  A  block  farther,  again  on  the  cor- 
ner, the  brilliantly  lighted  entrance  of  a  building 
sprang  into  view,  the  multiple  globes  of  an  electric 
sign  spelling  the  single  word  "Theatre" ;  and,  early 
though  it  was,  as  they  swung  by  she  caught  the 
glimpse  of  a  steady  stream  of  humanity  flowing 
along  the  sidewalk  and  in  at  the  open  door.  In- 
voluntarily, again  at  the  sight  her  hand  went  to  her 
throat,  fumbled  with  a  clasp  and,  an  instant  later, 
as  the  lapels  of  the  coat  opened  a  flash  of  white 
beneath  came  to  view. 

On  they  went,  faster  now,  for  the  congested  area 
was  past,  the  lighted  shop  fronts  less  frequent ;  but 
even  yet  the  girl  could  not  be  still.  Though  the 
team  was  trotting  steadily  it  seemed  to  her  they 
barely  crawled  and  she  caught  herself  from  calling 
an  order  to  hurry.  Of  a  sudden,  too,  the  carriage 
with  its  closed  windows  seemed  unbearably  close 
and  stifling  and  a  gloved  hand,  white  likewise, 
struggled  with  a  window  at  the  side  until  it  opened 
and  a  stream  of  cool  damp  spring  air  drifted 
within. 

Before  the  university  campus,  at  the  broad  flag- 
stone walk  leading  to  the  medical  building,  the  cab 
drew  up  with  a  jolt.  Silently  this  time  the  driver 
opened  the  door,  silently  stood  at  attention  as  his 
fare  alighted.  But  if  she  felt  any  uncertainty  the 
girl  showed  none,  "Wait,"  she  directed  simply, 
and  the  white  slippers  went  pattering  through  the 


316  The  Quest  Eternal 

steel  arch  with  the  blank  lamp  posts  at  either  side 
and  along  the  beaten  stones. 

From  the  front,  the  big  building  was  dark,  its 
great  windows  reflecting  the  city's  lights  like  unsee- 
ing eyes.  But  she  did  not  pause  at  the  front.  As 
one  with  a  definite  purpose,  a  definite  destination, 
she  chose  the  narrow  cement  walk  leading  around 
the  building  to  the  rear,  turned  the  corner  and  to 
the  watching  driver  disappeared  from  view.  As 
she  did  so  there  appeared  just  before  her  the  thing 
she  had  expected:  a  single  curtained  window  with 
a  light  behind  and  a  few  steps  beyond,  a  door. 

Before  the  latter  for  an  instant  she  halted;  tense, 
listening.  There  was  no  sound  within;  save  the 
glow  on  the  shade  no  indication  of  life.  Like  a 
child  facing  the  unknown  a  moment  she  paused  so, 
breathing  hard;  then  without  a  glance  behind  her 
or  about,  she  tapped  softly  on  the  oak  panel. 

There  was  no  response,  not  even  an  echo,  and  for 
another  second  she  waited.  The  long  coat  had 
opened  again  at  the  throat  and  with  one  hand  she 
clasped  it  tight.  With  the  other  she  knocked  again, 
more  loudly  this  time,  insistently. 

Answering  there  was  a  sound,  muffled  by  the  heavy 
door,  yet  unmistakable:  the  grating  of  a  chair  on 
the  cement  floor.  Following,  just  audible,  steps 
sounded,  uneven  steps,  alternately  distinct  and 
shuffling,  but  coming  nearer.  Then  in  the  lock  be- 
fore her  a  key  turned  gratingly,  a  narrow  aperture 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  317 

opened  in  the  dark  background  of  the  doorway — 
and  she  was  face  to  face  with  Bob  McLeod. 

For  perhaps  five  seconds  they  both  stood  there  so, 
neither  moving  nor  speaking;  then  without  form 
of  invitation,  still  grasping  the  coat  at  the  throat,  the 
girl  stepped  within.  Even  yet  the  other  did  not 
move  and  once  more  without  permission  she  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

Following  there  was  a  longer  silence,  one  bigger 
than  words  could  have  filled;  so  big  that  for  these 
two  it  compassed  the  universe.  Infinite  in  its  mean- 
ing, its  prophecy,  its  possibility,  it  dragged  on  and 
on,  bridging  the  wide  chasm  of  their  past  separa- 
tion, drawing  their  divergent  lives  momentarily 
nearer  and  nearer,  rendering  all  things  thereafter 
possible.  To  have  broken  it  neither  considered. 
That  it  was  dragging  into  the  space  of  a  minute 
neither  realised.  With  them  it  encompassed  intro- 
duction, commonplace,  conventionality.  When  it 
ended  at  last  they  were  in  the  midst  of  things,  far, 
far  away  from  the  beginning,  the  lapse  of  three 
years  ignored,  the  old,  old  problem  of  life,  their  life, 
dominant  between  them.  Into  this  chaos  the  girl 
plunged;  not  hesitatingly  now  or  uncertainly — all 
that  had  passed  in  the  space  elapsed — but  instead 
irresistibly,  cumulatively,  with  a  purpose  that  noth- 
ing could  deviate. 

"Bob  McLeod,"  she  said  evenly,  "I  love  you." 

Though  the  testimony  had  already  been  given, 


31 8  The  Quest  Eternal 

heralded  incontestably  in  that  preceding  silence,  the 
man's  face  whitened  as  at  the  unexpected.  As  at 
the  unexpected  he  drew  back,  involuntarily. 

"Peg,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

"It  was  to  tell  you  this,  if  necessary,  that  I  came 
back,  that  I'm  here  now.  You've  made  it  necessary. 
It's  unavoidable.  It's  fate." 

"Peg!"  With  an  effort  the  man  looked  away, 
desperately,  "don't  say  any  more,  please.  I  can't 
have  you.  You  mustn't,  mustn't " 

"Mustn't?"  The  girl  did  not  stir  in  her  place. 
"And  why  not,  please?  It's  true.  I've  come  a 
thousand  miles  to  tell  you  so." 

"Nevertheless,  you  mustn't,"  McLeod  was  grop- 
ing, his  mind  in  chaos,  "and  I  mustn't  listen.  I  be- 
lieve you,  I  can't  do  otherwise;  but  you  must  forget 
it."  His  narrow  shoulders  tightened  in  the  old  de- 
fiance against  himself,  against  fate,  against  all 
things  that  were.  "You  must  go  now,  at  once,  be- 
fore you've  said  any  more,  before  either  of  us  have 
said  any  more ;  before  it's  too  late.  Please  go,  Peg. 
I  ask  it." 

"Go!"  Still  the  girl  did  not  stir.  Still  her  hand 
grasped  the  long  coat  tight  at  her  throat.  "And 
why?  Tell  me  exactly  why." 

No  answer  this  time.    Words  would  not  come. 

"Is  it  because  you  don't  care  for  me,  Bob  McLeod, 
because  you  don't  want  to  listen?" 

Swift  to  the  man's  lips  sprang  words,  a  lie;  then 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  319 

they  halted  unspoken.  He  could  not  lie  then,  and 
had  he  done  so  she  would  not  have  believed. 

"You  do  care  for  me,  you  can't  deny  it.  It's  not 
that." 

"No,  it's  not  that,  Peg." 

"What  it  is,  then?    I'm  listening." 

Still  silence.  Then  a  cough,  a  cough  the  man 
struggled  to  avoid.  Again  silence. 

"Tell  me.    I  ask  it." 

"It's  useless.  You  can't  know  all  or  you  wouldn't 
be  here.  You  simply  can't  realize.  Don't  ask 
me." 

For  the  first  time  the  girl  moved,  came  a  step  for- 
ward. The  hand  at  her  throat  loosened  and  a  flame 
of  white  stood  out  beneath  her  face. 

"You  mean  that  I  don't  know  all — about  you?" 
Her  eyes  met  him  level  and  steady.  "That  I  don't 
realise  you're  lame  for  life;  that  you're  leaving  the 
university  never  to  return;  that  I  don't  know  you're 
— sick?  You  fancy  I  don't  realise  all  that,  Bob 
McLeod  ?  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes,  that — and  more." 

"And  what  more?"  swiftly.  "That  I  don't  know 
you'll  never  be  rich  or  famous?  That  I  don't  un- 
derstand exactly  why  you're  going  now,  and  where? 
That — it's  useless  to  itemise,  childish.  Do  you 
fancy  still  I've  anything  to  learn?" 

No  answer  this  time,  no  move.  But  somehow  the 
girl  understood. 


320  The  Quest  Eternal 

"You  mean — myself."  Still  no  halt,  no  avoiding 
of  realities;  only  the  steady  drip  of  questions  that 
tarried  not  for  answers.  "Do  you  fancy,  Bob 
McLeod,  fancy  I  say,  that  I  don't  know  what  my 
being  here  means,  what  it  means  to  be  telling  you 
things  as  I'm  telling  them  now  ?  Do  you  fancy  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second  that  if  I  hadn't  thought  it 
all  out  before,  made  up  my  mind  in  advance  unal- 
terably, I'd  be  doing  what  I'm  doing  now  ?  Do  you 
believe,  you  a  man,  that  I'm  still  the  little  girl  you 
knew  ten  years  ago?  Do  you  believe  this?" 

"No,  but " 

"There  is  no  but,"  tensely.  "I  tell  you  I've  de- 
cided— with  my  eyes  open.  With  my  eyes  open 
I've  come  back;  and  returned  to  stay.  I've  played 
the  game  they  call  success,  played  it  with  your  help, 
though  I  didn't  realise  it  at  first,  and  to  the  end.  I 
know  the  taste  of  it,  the  bitter  and  the  sweet.  I've 
learned  its  alphabet  from  A  to  Z.  No  one  can  tell 
me  more  about  it.  I've  known  it  myself,  felt  it  my- 
self. And  still  I've  come  back,  Bob  McLeod — 
with  my  eyes  open.  I'm  leaving  the  old  life  to- 
night, as  you're  leaving  the  university,  forever.  Do 
you  know  why  I'm  leaving  it,  man,  Scotchman,  do 
you  know  that?" 

She  paused  at  last  for  a  response ;  but  no  response 
came.  She  had  expected  none. 

"I'll  tell  you  why,  then,"  she  answered  herself. 
"It's  because  I've  learned  something  more  that  I 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  321 

haven't  told ;  learned  it  in  the  school  that  makes  no 
mistakes.  Maybe  if  I'd  been  a  man  I'd  never  have 
learned,  I  don't  know  nor  care,  for  I'm  not  a  man. 
I've  learned  this:  that  a  woman  must  have  one 
thing  in  life,  must ;  and  one  alone.  No  matter  what 
else  she  has,  no  matter  how  many  other  things,  this 
one  necessity  is  imperative.  Without  it  all  else  is 
empty,  worthless ;  and  that  one  thing,  Bob  McLeod, 
is  love.  I'm  made  that  way,  we're  all  made  that 
way.  It's  Nature's  law,  unalterable.  It  alone  is 
happiness.  That's  what  I  learned  and  that's  why  I 
came  back.  In  comparison  with  this  one  thing 
failure,  obscurity,  poverty  even,  means  nothing. 
It's  the  one  end  of  life,  the  single  thing  worth 
while."  The  voice  lowered,  for  it  was  the  final 
word  she  was  speaking,  the  ultimatum.  "In  my 
case  the  need  is  you,  Bob  McLeod,  you  and  no 
other.  It's  for  you  and  none  other  that  I'm  giving 
up  everything  now,  that  I've  given  up  everything 
already.  For  you,  man,  Scotchman,  you — and  be- 
cause I  love  you !" 

Upon  the  tiny  cluttered  room  fell  silence.  Her 
message  spoken,  her  defence,  her  challenge,  the 
girl  waited.  Opposite  her,  in  the  place  from  which 
through  it  all  he  had  not  stirred,  the  man  likewise 
waited,  and  for  what  he  knew  not.  Twice  before 
in  their  tangled  lives  there  had  been  climaxes  such 
as  this,  turning  points  of  future;  and  he  had  not 
hesitated.  Twice  he  had  seen  his  way  clear  before 


322  The  Quest  Eternal 

him,  the  one  straight  and  narrow  path  for  him  to 
tread.  But  this  time  the  way  was  not  clear.  He 
had  not  planned  a  miracle ;  and  now,  before  his  eyes, 
a  miracle  had  taken  place.  Occurring,  it  opened  a 
breach  in  his  philosophy,  his  wall  of  defence  and  of 
offence;  and  swift  into  the  aperture  sprang  the 
enemy  three:  desire,  selfishness,  love.  On  they 
came,  one  and  all,  gathering  power  moment  by  mo- 
ment; and  of  a  sudden  his  old  strength  to  battle 
with  them  was  gone.  Something,  was  it  the  miracle, 
had  stolen  his  old  weapon  of  self-denial  away  from 
him.  He  had  nothing  to  fight  them  with,  nothing ; 
and  they  were  pressing  him  close.  He  looked  at  the 
girl  before  him,  the  girl  that  meant  happiness,  ob- 
livion of  failure,  all  that  life  held — and  the  enemy 
pressed  closer  and  closer.  Again  it  was  the  miracle 
personified.  So  short  a  time  ago,  a  half  hour,  and 
she  was  as  far  separate  as  the  ends  of  the  earth;  and 
now — now — she  was  there,  almost  within  arm's 
reach — and  waiting.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his 
face  and  it  came  away  damp ;  damp  as  when  he  was 
labouring  under  a  summer  sun.  He  tried  to  think; 
but  he  could  not  think.  A  hunger  was  upon  him,  a 
hunger  that  obliterated  every  other  sensation,  a 
hunger  for  her.  And  still  he  would  not,  could  not, 
give  the  thing  she  asked,  that  he  wanted  so  much 
to  give.  Every  instinct  bade  him  do  so;  but  he 
could  not — yet.  Another  cord,  invisible,  intangible, 
strongest  of  all,  held  him  back.  Seemingly  con- 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  323 

vinced  he  was  yet  not  convinced.  That  she  cared  he 
could  not  longer  doubt.  That  she  had  demon- 
strated. That  she  knew — all  she  had  likewise 
proven,  proven  incontestably.  And  still  the  cord 
invisible  held  him  back;  the  something  not  yet  re- 
vealed, still  in  doubt.  Again  groping,  tortured,  he 
passed  his  hand  across  his  face — and  that  second 
he  knew  for  that  second  something  happened. 

In  the  brief  drama  of  passion  and  of  events  that 
had  filled  the  past  few  minutes  so  full  both  had 
forgotten  time.  That  there  was  still  a  part  on  the 
big  stage  without  for  one  of  them  to  play,  an  in- 
sistent part,  they  had  been  temporarily  uncon- 
scious. Their  own  tiny  drama  had  been  too  absorb- 
ing, too  dominant.  Now,  interrupting,  came  the 
call  of  the  prompter,  the  cue.  From  their  very 
midst,  the  wall  back  of  them,  it  came,  as  relentless 
as  fate,  as  implacable :  the  methodical  alarm  of  the 
old  clock  that  announced  the  hour  of  eight. 

Answering,  dominated  by  the  same  thought,  the 
same  remembrance,  they  both  started.  Responsive 
their  eyes  met;  and  in  a  flash  of  realisation  the  man 
knew  the  thing  that  held  him  back.  For  the  girl 
was  not  yet  free ;  not  yet.  The  old  life,  the  old  am- 
bition, at  whose  altar  they  had  both  worshipped, 
still  claimed  her.  She  had  thought  she  was  free; 
but  was  she  ?  Could  she  ever  be  free,  even  though 
she  wished  ?  Could  she  ?  Unspoken,  the  question 
flashed  between  them.  Unspoken  the  moment  of 


324  The  Quest  Eternal 

its  birth  gathered  into  the  past.  Then  came  tardy 
action. 

"You  mustn't  stay  any  longer,  Peg,"  said  the  man 
gently,  infinitely  gently.  Behind  his  back  his  locked 
hands  clasped,  until  the  fingers  dug  into  the  palms ; 
but  his  voice  gave  no  sign.  "The  world,  your 
world  is  waiting  for  you,  calling.  You  must  go, 
Peg." 

"Go!"  It  was  the  flame  at  last,  the  flame  that 
had  played  for  long  just  beneath  the  surface.  "Go !" 
Like  those  of  the  man  her  own  hands  locked  tight; 
but  before  her  where  all  the  world  might  see  if  it 
wished.  "Do  you  imagine  I  didn't  think  of  this, 
allow  for  it?  I'll  go,  but  you  go  with  me,  Bob 
McLeod.  You've  never  yet  heard  me  sing  in  pub- 
lic; and  it's  the  last  time  I'll  ever  appear,  your  only 
chance.  You'll  go  with  me,  I  say." 

"No,  Peg,"  said  the  man. 

"No?" 

"No." 

"Very  well,  you  miss  your  chance  then."  With 
one  motion  her  locked  hands  opened,  simultane- 
ously loosening  the  buttons  beneath.  With  another 
she  snatched  off  the  long  enveloping  coat  and  tossed 
it  beside  the  battered  telescope.  "Can't  you  under- 
stand, man,  Scotchman,  that  I'm  in  dead  earnest. 
I  tell  you  I'll  not  go  near  that  opera  house  to-night 
unless  you  go  with  me ;  and  leave  with  me.  They, 
the  world  you  call  them,  can  starve  in  their  seats 


Where  Ends  the  Quest  325 

before  I  go.  I  love  you,  I  say,  and  nothing  can 
separate  us  now,  not  even  you.  It's  life  we're  liv- 
ing, Bob  McLeod;  not  some  one  else's  lives  but  our 
own."  She  paused  a  moment,  throbbingly  tense, 
throbbingly  vital,  and  though  he  had  never  seen  her 
so,  though  now  he  would  never  so  see  her,  Bob 
McLeod,  the  spectator,  the  worshipper,  knew  how 
she  had  looked  in  grand  opera  when  she  had  played 
the  part  and  at  the  close  the  audience  had  gone  wild. 
All  in  white,  gowned  to  a  detail  for  the  night's  ap- 
pearance, she  was  unconsciously  repeating  those 
former  moments;  only  infinitely  more  convincingly 
now,  more  vitally  human,  for  it  was  all  real,  and 
the  passion  she  was  reflecting  her  own.  A  moment 
she  paused  so,  then  she  crossed  to  the  nearest  chair, 
swung  it  facing  and  sat  down.  "I'm  waiting  until 
you  are  ready,  until  you're  convinced,  doubter,"  she 
voiced,  "waiting." 

"Peg!"  It  was  the  crushing  straw,  the  snapping 
of  the  final  thread  of  uncertainty.  "Peg  Stanton  1" 
The  last  fragments  of  the  man's  philosophy,  his 
reserve,  his  self-denial,  were  tumbling  about  his 
head.  "My  Peg!  You  mean  it,  you  would  do  this 
thing  for  me?"  He  was  coming  forward,  limping 
but  unconscious  of  the  fact;  coming  as  the  iron  re- 
sponds to  the  magnet,  irresistibly  as  the  streamlet 
follows  the  law  of  gravitation  to  the  sea.  "You 
love  me  so  much,  you  ?" 

The  girl  did  not  stir  in  her  place,  only  waited. 


326  The  Quest  Eternal 

"Yes,  Bob." 

"And  you'll  never  regret  what  you've  done, 
never?" 

"Never,  as  God  hears  me,  never." 

A  moment  before  her  the  man  halted;  worship- 
ping, scarce  believing,  the  unsatisfied  hunger  of  a 
lifetime  of  loneliness  and  self-repression  blazing 
from  his  eyes.  A  second  longer  he  remained  so, 
feasting  his  fill.  Then  in  sudden  abandon  he 
stooped  over  and,  wordless,  caught  her  into  his 
arms,  lifted  her  up,  up — to  him.  While  in  the 
downtown  opera  house  the  great  gathered  audience 
waited,  he  kissed  her,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
since  they  were  children,  passionately,  hungrily  as 
though  he  could  not  get  his  fill ;  but  at  last  without 
a  doubt  of  right  in  his  soul.  For  that  moment  the 
quest  for  him,  his  eternal  quest,  had  ended. 


THE  END 


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Abner  Daniel.     By  Will  N.  Harben. 

The  Far  Horizon.    By  Lucas  Malet. 

The  Halo.    By  Bettina  von  Hutten. 

Jerry  Junior.    By  Jean  Webster. 

The  Powers  and  Maxine.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  M.  Williamson. 

The  Balance  of  Power.    By  Arthur  Goodrich. 

Adventures  of  Captain  Kettle.    By  Cutcliffe  Hyne. 

Adventures  of  Gerard.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Arms  and  the  Woman.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Artemus  Ward's  Works   (extra  illustrated). 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Richie.    By  Margaret  Deland. 

Battle  Ground,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Belle  of  Bowling  Green,  The.    By  Amelia  E.  Barr. 

Ben  Blair.     By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Best  Man,  The.    By  Harold  MacGrath. 

Beth  Norvell.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Bob  Hampton  of  Placer.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.    By  Alfred  Ollivant. 

Brass  Bowl,  The.    By  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Brethren,  The.    By  H.  Rider  Haggard. 

Broken  Lance,  The.     By   Herbert  Quick. 

By  Wit  of  Women.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont 

Call  of  the  Blood,  The.    By  Robert  Kitchens. 

Cap'n  Eri.     By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cardigan.     By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Car  of  Destiny,  The.    By  C.  N.  and  A.  N.  Williamson. 

Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine.    By  Frank 

R.  Stockton. 
Cecilia's  Lovers,    By  Amelia  E.  Barr, 


Popular  Copyright  Books 

AT    MODERATE    PRICES 

Any  of  the  following  titles  can  be  bought  of  your 
bookseller  at  the  price  you  paid  for  this  volume 


Spirit  of  the  Border,  The.     By  Zane  Grey. 

Spoilers,  The.    By  Rex  Beach. 

Squire  Phin.     By  Holman  F.  Day. 

Stooping  Lady,  The.      By  Maurice  Hewlett. 

Subjection  of  Isabel  Carnaby.  By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler. 

Sunset  Trail,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Sword  of  the  Old  Frontier,  A.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Tales  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

That  Printer  of  Udell's.     By  Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Throwback,  The.     By  Alfred  Henry  Lewis. 

Trail  of  the  Sword,  The.     By  Gilbert  Parker. 

Treasure  of  Heaven,  The.     By  Marie  Corelli. 

Two  Vanrevels,  The.     By  Booth  Tarkington. 

Up  From  Slavery.    By  Booker  T.  Washington. 

Vashti.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

Viper  of  Milan,  The  (original  edition).    By  Marjorie  Bowen. 

Voice  of  the  People,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

Wheel  of  Life,  The.    By  Ellen  Glasgow. 

When  I  Was  Czar.    By  Arthur  W.  Marchmont. 

When  Wilderness  Was  King.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

Where  the  Trail  Divides.    By  Will  Lillibridge. 

Woman  in  Grey,  A.    By  Mrs.  C.  N.  Williamson. 

Woman  in  the  Alcove,  The.    By  Anna  Katharine  Green. 

Younger  Set,  The.    By  Robert  W.  Chambers. 

The  Weavers.    By  Gilbert  Parker. 

The  Little  Brown  Jug  at  Kildare.    By  Meredith  Nicholson. 

The  Prisoners  of  Chance.    By  Randall  Parrish. 

My  Lady  of  Cleve.    By  Percy  J.  Hartley. 

Loaded  Dice.    By  Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Get  Rich  Quick  Wallingford.    By  George  Randolph  Chesten 

The  Orphan.    By  Clarence  Mulford. 

A  Gentleman  of  France,   By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 


PUR.T'5  SERIES  of  STANDARD  FICTION, 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Early  Settlers  In  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth.  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $i  .00. 

A  book  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  Is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  The 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mis- 
slonartes  In  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant- 
Ing  of  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  is 
Lewis  Wetzel,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,  that  others  might  dwell  in  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
of  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indian*  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  Interest  to 
the  student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vivfd  word* 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,  as  seen  in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  It, 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
every  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em- 
pire might  be  the  more  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender, 
runs  through  the  book. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OF  '*HE  SCHOONER  C2NTIPEDE.  By  I«leut. 
Henry  A.  Wise,  U.  S.  N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  12010.  with  four  illustra- 
tions by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

The  re-publication  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarns 
who  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those 
"who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scenes 
depicted. 

The  one  book  of  this  gifted  author  which  Is  best  remembered,  and  which 
will  be  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come,  Is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  in 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  has 
never  been  excelled,  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  usual 
embellishments  of  blood  and  thunder,  it  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OF  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Robert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  In 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  In  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 
print,  had  in  its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
Indian  and  frontier  life  in  the  early  days  of  settlement  In  the  South,  nar- 
rated in  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  wry  charming 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story.  This  new  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  for 
this  enchanting  story  frum  Dr.  Bird's  clever  and  versatile  pen. 

GUY  FAWKES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Wm.  Harri- 
son Ainsworth.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Price,  $1.00. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament, 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England, 
was  weak-minded  and  extravagant.  He  hit  upon  the  efficient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con- 
eluded  to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested, 
ftnd  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with 
royal  vigor.  A  very  intense  lovti/eterx  cuo*  Ibrough  the  entire  romance 


BURT'S  SERIES  ef  STANDARD  FICTION. 

TICONDEROG A  :  A  Story  of  Early  Frontier  Life  in  the  Mohawk  Valley. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  lamo.  with  four  page  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo. 

The  setting  of  the  story  Is  decidedly  more  picturesque  than  any  ever 
evolved  by  Cooper:  The  frontier  of  New  York  State,  where  dwelt  an  English 
gentleman,  driven  from  his  native  home  hy  grief  over  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
with  a  son  and  daughter.  Thither,  brought  by  the  exigencies  of  war,  comes 
an  English  officer,  who  is  readily  recognized  as  that  Lord  Howe  who  met  his 
death  at  Ticonderoga.  As  a  most  natural  sequence,  even  amid  the  hostile 
demonstrations  of  both  French  and  Indians,  Lord  Howe  and  the  young  girl 
find  time  to  make  most  dellclously  sweet  love,  and  the  son  of  tbe  recluse  has 
already  lost  his  heart  to  the  daughter  of  a  great  sachem,  a  dusky  maiden 
whose  warrior-father  has  surrounded  her  with  all  the  comforts  of  a  civilized 
life. 

The  character  of  Captain  Brooks,  who  voluntarily  decides  to  sacrifice  hla 
own  life  in  order  to  save  tbe  son  of  the  Englishman,  is  not  among  tbe  least 
of  the  attractions  of  this  story,  which  holds  the  attention  of  the  reader  even 
to  the  last  page.  The  tribal  laws  and  folk  lore  of  the  different  tribes  of 
Indians  known  as  the  "Five  Nations,"  with  which  the  story  is  interspersed, 
shows  that  the  author  gave  no  small  amount  of  study  to  the  work  In  question, 
and  nowhere  else  is  It  shown  more  plainly  than  by  the  skilful  manner  in 
which  he  has  interwoven  with  his  plot  the  "blood"  law,  which  demands  a 
life  for  a  life,  whether  it  be  that  of  the  murderer  or  one  of  his  race. 

A  more  charming  story  of  mingled  love  and  adventure  has  never  been 
written  than  "Ticonderoga." 

ROB  OP  THE  BOWL  :  A  Story  of  the  Early  Days  of  Maryland.  By  John 
P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  xztno.  with  four  page  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis; 
Price,  Ji.oo. 

It  was  while  he  was  a  member  of  Congress  from  Maryland  that  the 
noted  statesman  wrote  this  story  regarding  the  early  history  of  his  native 
State,  and  while  some  critics  are  inclined  to  consider  "Horse  Shoe  Robinson" 
as  tbe  best  of  his  works,  it  is  certain  that  "Rob  of  the  Bowl"  stands  at  the 
head  of  the  list  as  a  literary  production  and  an  authentic  exposition  of  the 
manners  and  customs  during  Lord  Baltimore's  rule.  The  greater  portion  o£ 
the  action  takes  place  in  St.  Mary's — the  original  capital  of  the  State. 

As  a  series  of  pictures  of  early  colonial  life  in  Maryland,  "Rob  of  the 
Bowl"  has  no  equal,  and  the  book,  having  been  written  by  one  who  had 
exceptional  facilities  for  gathering  material  concerning  the  individual  mem- 
bers of  tbe  settlements  In  and  about  St.  Mary's,  is  a  most  valuable  addition 
to  the  history  of  the  State. 

The  story  Is  full  of  splendid  action,  with  a  charming  love  story,  and  a 
plot  teat  never  loosens  the  grip  of  its  interest  to  Its  last  page. 

'BY  BERWEN  BANKS.    By  Allen  Raine. 

It  Is  a  tender  and  beautiful  romance  of  the  Idyllic.  A  charming  picture 
of  life  In  a  Welsh  seaside  village.  It  is  something  of  a  prose-poem,  true. 
tender  and  graceful. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KINO.  A  romance  of  the  American  Revolution. 
By  Chauncey  C,  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo. 

The  story  opens  In  the  month  of  April,  1775,  with  the  provincial  troops 
hurrying  to  the  defense  of  Lexington  and  Concord.  Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched 
In  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery  and  true  love  that  thrills  from 
beginning  to  end  with  the  spirit  of  the  Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly, 
»nd  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a  part  In  the  exciting  scenes  described.  Yon 
lay  the  book  aside  with  the  feeling  that  you  have  seen  a  gloriously  true 
picture  Of  the  Revolution.  Ills  whole  story  i>»  so  absorbing  that  you  will  sit 
op  tei  Into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  wmange  it  is  charming. 


SERIES  Qf  STANDARD   F1CTIOM. 

DARNLEY .  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey. 
By  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  bj  J.  Watson  Da  via., 
Price,  Ji.oo. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  up 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  whicl| 
those  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  wa» 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "field  of  the  cloth  of 
gold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  Imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  has 
credited  with  having  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
he  succeeds  in  making  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  Jove. 

WINDSOR  CASTLE.    A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Henry  VIII 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn.    By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.    Cloth. 
I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.    Price  $1.00. 

"Windsor  Castle"  is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
good  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  his  mar- 
riage to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  It 
was  vehement.  Jane  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor. 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro- 
lina in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy  Cloth,  lamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  the  .'.eld  of  what  Is  known  as  historical  flc» 
tion,  there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  than 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  it  is  the  only  story  which  depicts 
with  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro- 
lina to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  of  the  British 
under  such  leaders  as  Cornwallis  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
of  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  those 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over- 
drawn, but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neither 
time  nor  labor  In  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  In  the 
winning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  because  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
etory,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  information  concerning  the 
colonists  which  it  contains.  That  it  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
Illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  who 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OF  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Cloth,  I2tno.  Illustrated.  Price,  $1.00. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Pearl  of  Orr's  Island"  is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  each 
time  one  reads  them.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  Orr's  Island,"  and  straightway 
comes  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl  of  some  savage  animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  which 
««,xne  Into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel's  wings, 
witnoin  having  an  intense  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  blos- 
somed? Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char- 
ter of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  amid  th« 
angry  billows,  pillowed  on  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  is  no   more   faithful   portrayal  of  New   England   life  than  that 
Mrs.  Stowe  gives  in   "The  Pearl  of  GIT'S  Island." 


BURT'S  SERIES  of  STANDARD  FICTION. 

RICHELIEU.  A  tale  of  France  in  the  reign  of  King  Louis  XIII.  By  G.  P, 
R.  James.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  Ji.oo0 

In  1S?9  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu,"  and  was 
recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  craft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during  those  later  days  of  the  great  car- 
dinal's life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  it  was 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  permit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  which 
overwhelmed  foes  and  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wav<  of  prosperity. 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  Is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir- 
acy; the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  Insight  into  the  state- 
craft of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history. 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  In  point  of  thrilling 
and  absorbing-  interest  has  never  been  excelled. 

A  COLONIAL  FREE-LANCE.  A  story  of  American  Colonial  Times.  By 
Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  that  appeals  to  Americans  as  a  vivid  picture  of  Revolutionary 
scenes.  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true 
American  to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter,  until 
the  eyes  smart,  and  it  fairly  smokes  with  patriotism.  The  love  story  is  a 
Singularly  charming  idyl. 

THE  TOWER  OF  LONDON.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  rimes  of  Lady 
Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Tudor.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  xzmo.  with 
four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  romance  of  the  "Tower  of  London"  depicts  the  Tower  as  palace, 
prison  and  fortress,  with  many  historical  associations.  The  era  Is  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  story  is  divided  into  two  parts,  one  dealing  with  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
and  the  other  with  Mary  Tudor  as  Queen,  introducing  other  notable  char- 
acters of  the  era.  Throughout  the  story  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader 
In  the  midst  of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  extending  considerably  over  a 
half  a  century. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  Romance  of  the  American  Revolution. 
By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched  in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery, 
and  true  love  that  thrills  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a 
part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  His  whole  story  is  so  absorbing 
that  you  will  sit  up  far  Into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance 
it  is  charming. 

GARTHOWEN.  A  story  of  a  Welsh  Homestead.  By  Allen  Raine,  Cloth, 
izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  little  Idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  Dare  before 
us,  very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of 
Welsh  character— the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath. 
.  .  .  We  call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its 
romance  and  its  glimpses  into  another  life  than  ours.  A  delightful  and 
clever  picture  of  Welsh  village  life.  The  result  is  excellent."— Detroit  Free 
Press. 

MIFANWY.  The  story  of  a  Welsh  Singer.  By  Allan  Raine.  doth, 
jzmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  Is  a  love  story,  simple,  tender  and  pretty  as  one  would  care  to 
read.  The  action  throughout  is  brisk  and  pleasing;  the  characters,  it  is  ap- 
parent at  once,  are  as  true  to  life  as  though  the  author  had  known  them 
all  personally.  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  Is  worked  up  in  that 
touching  and  quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome,  BO  matter  how 
often  the  lights  and  shadows  of  love  are  Introduced.  It  rings  true,  and 
does  not  tax  the  Imagination,"— Boston  Herald. 


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